


All the glory that life makes (and death takes)

by RockerRema13



Category: Dream Daddy: A Dad Dating Simulator
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, No real plot tbh, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Second Person, Self-Esteem Issues, just dadsona trying to move on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-24 13:53:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12014139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockerRema13/pseuds/RockerRema13
Summary: “It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”Alex said to you eighteen years ago in the lot of the hospital. A mild fender bender because you rushed towards parking while your very pregnant wife was on her way to birthing your daughter right in the back seat. She had said it multiple times since then.Right now, you can’t remember the last time she said it.-Your name is Jesse Jerez.You have gone back to working the hospital’s emergency room, you and your daughter have moved into a new house in a new neighborhood, and you are convincing yourself to make new friends.You are definitely, absolutely, finally moving on with the death of your wife five years prior.At least, you are trying to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some slight changes and notes:  
> This Dadsona is of latinx descent, to convey any spanish spoken or thought it'll be in italics.  
> Dash marks are scene changes. Squiggle/tilde marks are time changes (between past and present, though all grammar is in present tense).  
> This also means that some of the endearments between Dadsona and Amanda will reflect that change.  
> Alex will be portrayed as cis woman. And Dadsona will be a bisexual cis man. Amanda is their biological daughter.  
> I imagine Diego Luna for this Dadsona tbh.
> 
> This was mostly made from the desire to have a Dadsona still going through grief over the loss of his spouse and moving on. I have no clear plot outline set except where ever the angst takes us, but I'll try. 
> 
> WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER:  
> Drunk make outs.  
> One sentence referencing a past discrimination towards Dadsona's sexuality from his father.

“It’s okay. It’s all gonna be okay.”

-

The first time Alex tells you that – voice steady and confident, like she wills it to be true – you are sitting on the front steps of a shared college house. Ska music beating through the floorboards as people’s conversations and screams meld into background noise. You aren’t certain how much time has passed from leaving the party to now, only that somewhere in between you there’s a tense conversation with your father that ends in tears. 

Your tears, of course.

Someone directly addressing you breaks the personal bubble you believed to have existed. There isn’t a subtle way to scrub the welling of tears on your face, which you are certain is already red and blotchy, so you don’t even attempt to. 

You stare at the girl a few years older than you and answer to the best of your ability.

“What?”

Smooth. You look like a fuckin’ crybaby. At a college house party, no less.

And it’s as if she deals with college kid’s emotional breakdowns often, because she doesn’t skip a beat in sitting down next to you. One moment you’re dealing with your father’s accusations and slurs, and the next you are being offered a bottle of beer that smells strongly of whiskey from a strange girl you’ve only just met. 

“Whatever it is you’re crying about. It’s gonna be okay.”

If that is supposed to be clarification you still don’t understand, but you accept the booze anyway and chug what you can in one gulp.

“That’s pretty optimistic for a shit situation,” and you clear your throat because crying and alcohol don’t leave you feeling so fresh. It makes you sound how sandpaper feels.

She only shrugs to that statement and downs her own bottle. There are minutes of comfortable silence between you. The streetlamp glistens on her many ear piercings, illuminating vague forms of dark tattoos lining her hands. You think it’s way too warm to be wearing a jacket, but she seems comfortable in her green one and who are you to judge someone who’s just given you free booze. When she pulls her drink away with a satisfied sound, she knocks it against yours.

“Well, it’ll be okay at least for tonight,” she finally says. “Besides, I think Keg Stand Craig is about to have a belch off with Smashley. So, c’mon, sad sack. Let’s get back in there.”

And you can’t really argue with that. The party sounds better than your father, and watching Craig and Smashley’s weird drunken courtship is much better than crying like a loser on the front steps.

You let her take your hand and drag you back inside the chaos.

~~~~

“This place is absolute chaos,” you say it with such resignation you feel defeated and you haven’t even started yet. In fact, you just spent some break time getting coffee and petting dogs. “It’s awful. How are we even going to sort through it all? We need to organize it perfectly. It’s our new home, a new place, a new start. I can’t mess this up, not yet! I don’t know anything about interior design!”

“Oh c’mon, Papa, it’s okay. We literally just moved the boxes in. What do you expect?” Amanda drops another box beside you, and bless her heart for putting up with your fretting the entire drive.

“Amanda panda, my sweet Annita, bless your heart for putting up with my fretting. You are truly a wonderful daughter,” you give her the highest of praises that she deserves as you drop yourself on the couch. 

Moving across the city proved tougher than you thought. Especially, when it meant going through your life’s material goods that have stacked up for the past twenty years. Somehow you’ve condensed it all into boxes, put those boxes all into a moving truck, and now have moved them into a new living room you’re going to call home.

You want to joke that at least you dealt with Alex’s stuff before the move. That you went through it piece by piece already, gave her friends bits you knew they’d appreciate more, had spent hours at a time forcing yourself to put each of Alex’s clothes in a bag – all of that over the course of the past several years. But, you don’t think Amanda would like that kind of humor. In fact, you’re not sure why you thought of it at all because you don’t like it very much either.

Wow, you suck at humor.

“I suck at humor,” you bemoan upon your lumpy and uncomfortable sprawl. 

“I know, Papa. That’s why I got mine from Mom,” Amanda shows no mercy as she looks down at you with a smile. Such a cute face should not be so mean.

“You got her cruelty, too.” You are not pouting. You’re almost forty years old and do not pout. Especially at your rebellious and cutthroat daughter.

“Nah, I’m pretty sure I got that from you.”

You gasp. “I am not cruel!”

Amanda crosses her arms, Alex’s old green jacket still a size too big.

“You made another nurse cry your first day at the clinic,” Amanda reminds you with a hint of reverence in her voice. She goes on with the tale, imitating your own flair for story telling, “You just transferred to pediatric care, but it wasn’t your first rodeo. And this young hotshot was flirting with a mom bringing her kid in and-”

“Yes, thank you. I remember,” you bury your face into the cushions for a moment before coming back up for air. “I also nearly got tossed out that day, too,” There’s a glow of satisfaction warming your heart at the mere idea that Amanda respects you for tearing into an unprofessional coworker. “You called me _‘brutal’_.”

Amanda huffs and pats your head before heading back towards the car, “You were totally brutal. You also bragged about it the entire day.”

“Not the entire day!” You call out and roll over off the couch to follow. Work won’t get done if you just whine about it. “Besides, because of that _goddamn moron_ I had to get my hair cut to an ‘acceptable and professional length’. They didn’t even notice I just took the tips off and wore my hair up all the time. They didn’t even care about the ear piercings!”

“I know, I know. You fought the man and the man lost so you can wear your out-of-style 90s garage-grunge-band haircut any time you want.” Amanda grabs another of her boxes and treks back towards the house.

“Hey! You say that like it’s a bad thing,” a beseeching expression overtakes your face. The classic Puppy Dog Eyes have matured into the Sad Dad Frown With A Hint of Disappointment.

“It’s not exactly a good thing,” she only graces you with a pitiful glance before heading inside, far too used to such blatant crocodile tears. “You don’t even wear it up in a man-bun.”

You stare after your daughter with furrowed brows and a feeling of disconnection. You remember to wash your hair regularly enough so that it doesn’t get too greasy. And there was once a time when Amanda loved the length of your hair – it’s how she learned to braid. Your hands unconsciously move to brush dark strands back, feeling them end just before your shoulders, some tangled through the metal in your ear. Do you need a haircut again? Is that what she’s telling you? Or a new style? But this is still a cool look, you’re pretty sure. Besides…

“What the hell is a man-bun?”

\--

You stare at the tall, blonde man before you. He’s brandishing a plate full of cookies and a smile full of pearly whites. He looks nice and welcoming and clean-cut, everything a friendly neighbor should be and you are distinctly aware of the week’s old scruff lining your face and the messy ponytail you put up after Amanda’s comment and the sweaty tank top and shorts still sticking to your skin. 

Jesus, does he have to be broad shouldered and handsome, too? Who the hell does this cookie cutout Ken doll think he is.

There’s a moment of silence as you stare at each other and you’re not exactly sure what the correct protocol for this specific situation is, so you stick to something neutral.

“Hello?” You know your tone is dubious and opening the door only halfway doesn’t help. The confused greeting seems to bring the stranger to talk, so you must be doing something right.

“Oh, where are my manners? My name is Joseph! I’m your next door neighbor and couldn’t help but notice the moving van,” he offers the hand not holding the plate.

A second’s worth of deliberating concludes to you opening the door further and giving his hand a brief but firm shake. His hand is warm and soft with few callouses, but he knows how to give a damn good shake. Everything seems safe enough. 

Besides, he’s wearing a sweater across his shoulders. Who does that? Golfer edition Ken dolls named Joseph, apparently.

“Hi. Um, I’m Jesse. We just moved in.” 

Joseph is in the midst of raising an eyebrow, some comment on the tip of his tongue before you barrel forth again.

“And by we, I mean me and my daughter. My daughter and me- I mean, I. My daughter and I. We just moved in. Today. Still actually in the process of moving crap, well, not crap. Since its ours and we specifically chose to bring it with us. But, ya know, when it’s cluttering up the front room it kinda feels like crap. Anyway, I’m rambling and you have a plate full of cookies, so help me out here.” 

Wow. This is the first neighbor you greet in your home and you’re already fucking wrecking your social life. Maybe it’s not too late to move again?

There is a smile breaking across Joseph’s face and he’s chuckling. Most definitely at you, you’re sure. But, hey, that still means this conversation and your social life are salvageable. 

“Yes, my daughter Christie wanted me to let you know she baked them herself.” He leans in closer to whisper, “Between you and me, she just added the heaps of chocolate chips,” and you can’t help but notice the laugh lines crinkled at the corner of his blue eyes.

“Someone say cookies?” Amanda chooses that opportune moment to pop in. You take a step back and watch as she grabs the plate of cookies and vanishes again.

“That’s my daughter. Amanda. She’s a real charmer. Has an insatiable craving for chocolate that I know did not come from me,” you give a small laugh at your own inside joke. 

You are absolutely not a fan of chocolate or mint and you’re sure Alex was pretty impartial to them, yet here is your progeny constantly hungering for the taste. At least she can eat those cookies. 

“Not to say that your cookies are gross or anything! I’m sure they’re delicious! I just don’t tend to eat chocolate and Amanda loves it and will certainly enjoy them enough for the both of us, don’t worry. So, what I’m trying and failing to say is, thank you. For stopping by. And for the cookies. And for enduring my awkward conversational skills.”

You are on a goddamn roll.

Joseph gives another gentle laugh, bless him. He pats your shoulder once, twice, and leaves his hand there in a comforting grip like the pro-neighborly neighbor he is. “Don’t worry about it. I actually wanted to invite you over for a barbeque this Saturday at three. Meet the rest of the neighbors in this cul-de-sac community of ours.” 

“Yes!” You agree a bit too enthusiastically, perhaps, but hey, an invitation to a backyard bash after your horrendous display warrants a bit of enthusiasm and you’re eager to please. “I mean, sure, of course. Amanda and I would love to stop by.”

“That’s great,” he pauses for a moment, hand still warm on your shoulder. “In all seriousness, children are tough, I know. I have four of my own, and… excuse me for over stepping or assuming, but raising one on your own can’t be easy…” 

You avert your gaze to anywhere else besides the pitiful look gears towards you, and you shift uncomfortably at the reminder that you are very much alone and have been for nearly five years. You are truly grateful this guy is amused by your bluster of social graces and has invited you over to his home, but you’ve been offered many helping hands in regards to raising your own child and you are very tired of it. 

You don’t need their pity or their advice. You and Amanda have gotten by just fine. 

Still, you nod your head slightly.

“And especially with a move like this, new neighbors and environment. If you ever need to…talk about…stuff…anything at all or want to hang out. I’m the youth minister at a church down the street and my house is just across the way.”

You look back up to him. “Oh…Thanks.” Well, that is off script from what you’re used to. It almost sounds like he wants to be your friend. “I wouldn’t consider myself of any faith or a youth, but um. Thank you.”

There’s that chuckle again as he gives a slight squeeze of your shoulder, “You don’t have to be, of course. I’m more than happy to help out a fellow neighbor.” 

He lets go and you’re just now remembering how sweaty your skin must be. Joseph must be too polite to mention or recoil from it, but he’s also not wiping his hand on his pants, so you think maybe you’re okay. Then, his smile widens a fraction and he, honestly, truly winks. 

While whispering the word ‘wink’.

“Besides, you look pretty young to me.”

You are honest to god not sure how to interpret that exchange at all.

You are also realizing that maybe you should cut back on the whole ‘name in vain’ shtick while the youth minister is around.

Then again, he just winked at you and called you young. So, it is not entirely clear what is and is not appropriate right when interacting with this man.

When Joseph is out the door and it is clear he won’t immediately return, you decide to go find your daughter and determine how severe the costs are of her cookie binge. 

\--

Amanda kicked you out of the house.

Your own beloved daughter turned her back against you. For a sleepover party. 

Oh, the youth these days.

At least it’s not a total loss since the bar you found is nicely populated – enough to easily blend in, but not uncomfortably crowded. The décor is loud like it’s patrons, and you wonder if it was all specifically chosen or if it was collected from actual street signs. You’re also not sure if there is a real Jim or Kim that owns this place. 

But hey, the booze is reasonably priced and there are no clusters of leather studded bikers punching each other in the face over a billiards game gone south. That’s a step up from the city. In fact, the only game playing is on the television. Which is probably what the other bar goers are watching, judging from their noise. You order a glass of whatever is on tap and watch.

Okay, you try to watch. 

A little bit. 

Sort of. 

Not really.

You don’t actually like sports, to be honest. You have no idea what’s going on or who those teams are or why people are cheering. When the next glass of beer is being emptied you are still not any closer to understanding.

“Why do people like this? Oh, man, one person is running towards their goal and The Ball is in place. No, oops, the other team has The Ball. No, wait, they can’t run anymore, except now they can, and did they get their points? Who knows! There’s still an unknown amount of boring hours left to watch.”

You’re muttering to yourself. In a bar it’s not the most unusual activity, but you realize perhaps it is not the best first impression. If anyone were paying attent-

“Hey, sailor.” 

You don’t flinch at all in any way when a husky voice breezes into your ear. 

The first thing you notice is drooping bedroom eyes and blushing high cheek bones. Then, the dull shine of a cross necklace and the nearly empty glass of a deep red drink. An attractive middle aged woman is sitting beside you at the bar, with intention of some sort as she leans closer. 

It feels awfully warm to be wearing a turtleneck sweater.

“Hey?”

“Good to see fresh meat in here. I’m Mary. Come here often?” She sips her wine and makes a show of letting her eyes wander down and back up, lips quirked.

It has been a very long time since someone has seriously flirted at you or you’ve flirted with someone else. 

You know this. 

But she doesn’t know this.

What you also know is that despite being a beautifully aged woman, she is not someone you would enjoy going home with. 

Firstly, she’s drunk. Secondly, there’s a cross necklace very much present atop her sweater. And thirdly, she sort of reminds you of friends back home – city home, with their darker colors and sharp smiles and forwardness.

But that doesn’t mean you can’t have pleasant conversations. 

You act in a familiar manner, shifting your body to face her with a fake and confident grin as you lean against the bar’s top.

“Good to know that fresh meat is appreciated here. I was concerned I moved into a vegetarian town.” Your tone is teasing, a challenge for her to keep up. “This slab of meat’s name is Jesse.”

Her brown eyes seem to focus more, eyeing you as you sip your beer. The corner of her mouth twitches and you can tell she’s already got you figured out.

“Oh, no. This is a very diverse town, Jesse. We enjoy our share of beef…and cabbage here.”

You nearly choke on your drink. You don’t though, because that would mean you lost and by the look on Mary’s face that seems to be her goal.

Well, since you’re already playing the game…

“Really, now? That’s pleasant to hear. Tell me, Mary, do they branch out to other tastes? Bratwurst?”

“Tuna?” she counters.

“Tacos?”

“Sausage.”

“Por-“

“Penis.”

Her facial muscles relax into such a stern expression, voice so low and serious that a snort bursts from you. It started in the back of your throat, and you are so caught off guard, but so determined not to let it escape, that it pushes its way through your nose to create such a hideous noise it almost physically hurts.

You make it again. Then, you’re giggling.

Mary blinks in surprise at you before settling back into her seat. She wears a smug smile as she finishes her drink and rests her chin upon the back of her hand.

“Looks like you lost, fella. Now where’s my prize?”

“Well I cannot deny you that,” you say flagging down the bartender. “Another glass for this foul mouthed classy lady. Also, one for me.”

“Mixing wine with beer? Dangerous way to live.”

“Dangerous? I laugh at the face of danger.”

You’re lying. You are straight up lying. Danger makes you nervous and panicky unless it’s in the comfort zone of the hospital because at least then you know the protocols to follow and have professional backup.

“Are you seriously quoting the lion king at me?” Mary raises a well groomed eyebrow at you, clearly unimpressed. “You would stoop so low?”

“Mary, we were just making dick jokes a moment ago.”

“Excuse you, they were raunchy euphemisms and you snorted through your nose like a nerd.”

Ah, yes. She definitely would fit in with your friends back at home. You’re pretty sure Alex would have found her charming. You take a drink instead of answering. 

“That’s what I thought. Now, tell me, what brings a clean cut sailor like yourself here?”

You’re pretty sure she’s making a jab at you, since last you checked you still have on your week old facial stubble and messy ponytail, not to mention a well-worn and fitted Santana t-shirt you blindly picked from a box full of clothes. 

Honestly, you don’t think you look terrible, but you’ve been told your opinion on the matter should not be trusted. 

“Just moved in from the edge of town with my daughter. She wanted the house for a sleepover party with her friends so they could scheme street level crimes.”

“Only street level?”

“Unfortunately. I asked about moving up to white collar crime, but no! She wants to stick to her roots, she said. But good for her. Now I’m enjoying gossip with a new friend, drinking questionable booze, and trying to ignore the sports happening around us.”

Mary gives a delighted chuckled as she shoots back more wine. “Not a sports fanatic, hmm? Sweaty men chasing after balls not your thing?”

“Not really. More of a…” you struggle finding the words that accurately conveys your interests but in a way that others would understand. “MMA or UFC kinda guy.” 

Nailed it. And that delicate judging eyebrow tells you so.

“Uh…It’s like…fighting. Martial arts. Boxing, too.”

“Ah, so you like sweaty muscular bodies beating each other up.”

“You make it sound dirty.”

“Mmhmm, and what did you say your work was?”

“Uuhhhh…. I’m a…. uh, a nurse. At the… emergency hospital.”

“Ohhhooohmmm.” she sips her drink, never breaking eye contact.

“This isn’t as kinky as you’re making it sound.”

“Hey now, those are your words, not mine, champ. But don’t worry, your secret is safe with me.”

“Oh, so you’re a secret keeper, is that what you do?” You are definitely not a little bit salty about this turn in conversation. “I thought you terrorized men for a living.”

“I’m a woman of many talents. I can do both. Now unless you go fucking everyone and telling them what you’re into-”

You choke on your drink.

“-then yes, your secret is safe with me. Now excuse me, new gossip friend, I found new men to terrorize.”

Mary finishes off the rest of her wine and hits you on the shoulder, hard.

“Be gentle,” you call to her as she stalks towards a pair of younger men, late twenties or so, that look like she’d eat them alive.

Mary lets loose a short cackle that definitely grabs their attention.

You chuckle to yourself as you finish your drink, feeling lighter and more comfortable than you had since stepping into the bar.

“I’m surprised Mary tolerated your company so long after getting her drink.”

The rough sound of a new voice draws your attention back to Mary’s abandoned seat. You first catch sight of a black leather jacket, then your mind fills in the rest. The smell of auto oil and paint and metal. Dark skin splattered with freckles and laugh lines and old scars. The warmth of the leather jacket after being worn for hours on end.

Alex. 

God, if that isn’t Alex-

And it’s not. 

When you actually face the person sitting there you take a quick breath and force yourself back at ease because it’s not Alex. It’s an older man with dark eyes and grey streaks of hair and facial scruff matching your own.

Not Alex at all – lovely, loud Alex, who’ll never get the chance to have grey hairs - and you’re embarrassed at yourself for even letting that thought start.

You really wish you had more alcohol in your glass. 

Luckily for you the man in the leather jacket motions over the bartender who seems to know exactly what he wants because the next moment includes a glass of whiskey in front of you and him. And really, did it have to be whiskey? You don’t want to be rude and you definitely want to consume more alcohol, but for fuck’s sake, you haven’t had whiskey in what feels like years. 

Still, you grab the glass and shoot it back a gulp to stop those thoughts from continuing. And it burns the whole way down. You never quite got used to the taste like Alex had.

“Really? It must have been my charming conversational skills in regards to dirty jokes and kinks.”

Words are out before you can really think about them and wow, you’ve managed to outdo yourself again in just one sentence with whatever the hell poured out of your mouth. How did you ever make friends in college?

To your utter surprise, the man in the leather jacket chuckles. “Yeah, sounds like something Mary would enjoy. She’s a peach that way.”

You have no idea how to further this conversation without looking more like a weirdo, because all you can think about is that yes, Mary is a peach, someone Alex would have greatly enjoyed, god they would have got on like a house on fire, hey guy, wanna hear about how my dead wife would have loved to be your friend? 

That doesn’t sound the least bit sane, so you take another sip of whiskey and revel in the familiar aroma. He seems to like that answer because he shoots back all of his easily.

“The name’s Robert.”

For some reason he still wants to talk to you. An inner voice that sounds exactly like Alex – because she always was your better half – urges you to speak.

“Jesse. And yeah, she’s uh, fun to talk to, that Mary. Better than watching that shit, at least,” you fumble with the conversation, gesturing towards the television that shows the remaining moments of the game.

The man in the leather jacket – Robert, you remind yourself, his name is Robert – raises a dark eyebrow that reminds you of how judging Mary’s seemed and how expressive Alex’s always was. Is everyone else this expressive with their eyebrows?

“That shit is a good game played by talented people,” he comments, and though his voice is even and his posture hasn’t shifted, he’s somehow still more intimidating than he was a second ago.

In a proper response, you stick your foot in your mouth.

“A good game? If I wanted to watch sweaty men chasing after a ball I’d go to the recreational gym, thanks. The only sports worth watching professionally is boxing or-”  
“Hey now, I can support professional boxing, but saying it’s the only sport-”

“No, no, not the only one-”

“You just said ‘the only one’-”

“Let me finish, there’s also the Ultimate Fighting Championship-”

“Hah! So, dirty jokes and fighting, that’s what you and Mary were talking about?” 

You didn’t notice yourself steadily turning towards Robert more and more, engaging the conversation instead of avoiding it. But there you are, full body facing the other man while your hands enthusiastically move about because that’s just how you are when talking about something with passion. When Robert’s words finally sink in, you feel heat rising up your neck and to your ears and cheeks. 

“Well… no, not just… I mean, these things are just came up is all and… uh, I…”

You decide to just shut your mouth, finish the last of your drink, and wave the bartender over for another round. In fact, with how well you seem to be handling this, and for putting Robert through all this-

“Shots, please.”

“Thank god,” Robert says, because yeah, he would enjoy those.

“Make ‘em tequila.”

“Going for the tequila, huh? With how you handled your whiskey, that seems a bit much for you.” The wolfish grin Robert gives you as he calls you out sparks indignation deep in your belly.

You would feel a bit sorry, but after that comment you don’t feel sorry at all. Once the shot of tequila is down you latch on and take it all at once before Robert has a chance to grab his. As you put the glass back onto the bar top, you stare Robert down, daring him to say more. He watches you for a brief moment. 

That might have thrown him through a loop. 

Good.

Robert doesn’t disappoint and takes the challenge for what it is because the corner of his lips twitch into the beginnings of a smile and he covers it up by taking the shot. He doesn’t even flinch, the proud asshole. 

“If not the game or the company of a lovely gal, what brings you here tonight?” Robert asks as he flags over another round. 

You are trying to remember the last time you drank so much was and you’re pretty sure it was a few weeks ago at the going away shindig at the tattoo bar. Either way, there’s another glass of alcohol in front of you that you’re obligated to drink, and a friendly gruff man beside you that you’re not entirely opposed to talking to. Actually, this may be what making friends is like.

Or flirting. This could also be flirting.

“Destressing after a busy day of unpacking my entire life’s possessions from boxes into a new house I will have to call home,” you pause to take a drink and make eye contact with Robert. “Also, my daughter wanted to have a sleepover with her friends, and as a responsible guardian I am allowing her space to get up to whatever teenage mischief she wants.”

“Sound like a good family man, Jesse,” Robert shows a sharp grin, but his eyes are equally sharp, searching for something you can’t quite place.

“Th-thanks,” you hesitate, making the snap decision to correct him. “It’s just my daughter and I, but I do what I can. For her, and for me.” 

“And for you, it’s coming to a hole in the wall like this? Good place to choose, I gotta say.”

There’s a change in the air as Robert leans closer to tap his glass against yours. You murmur an agreement, and feel the urge to break eye contact. You look at the lines of his neck as he tips his drink back, how it moves with each gulp. You look at where his shirt dips from the weight of his sunglasses, hair across the top of his chest and under the lines of his clavicles. You look as he shifts in his seat, his ripped jeans tight by his thighs and more so. You look away at his hand where a tattoo peaks out from his jacket sleeve, where slices of skin are lighter than the rest. 

You look at your own drink because you cannot trust yourself and you are positive you just gave Robert the once over and he has surely noticed. With as much dignity as you can must, you finish your drink.

This is definitely flirting.

\--

This is definitely kissing. 

Holy mother of god you just got picked up at a bar. How old are-

And those are Robert’s hands on your hips.

He’s pressing you back into the hard door with his entire body. His rough lips are still smashed against yours, keeping your head in place and you can feel his scruff scrape against yours, your legs spread and yield to him sliding in between them. Your entire body is yielding to this sudden tidal wave of arousal. There is nothing but heat and friction and pressure. 

When was the last time you felt such desire? When you felt so desired? 

Air is needed at some point in the mix, and as you try to take a breath Robert’s tongue smears wet across your lips and in between, a sudden intrusion before trailing down your neck, leaving behind the overwhelming flavor of whiskey and smoke. 

His hands are pushing at you, under your shirt and up your chest, keeping you firmly against the door as blunt fingers change direction to rake down your sides. One hand reaches up and threads through your hair, undoing the tie as it grabs hold and slowly pulls back, leaving you exposed and breathless. His tongue presses against your jugular and his teeth scrape the pulse point, a spark jolting down your spine and all your body can do is twitch against him. There’s a rumble of noise from him, something between satisfaction and amusement, and you’d feel more embarrassed if you weren’t so dizzy from the alcohol, from the lust; if you could see anything but darkness and blurry edges; if you both weren’t rutting into each other fully clothed. 

God, for the first time in a long time you want nothing more than to fuck.

That same desire seems to cross Robert’s mind. His hands release their bruising hold on you to push his jacket back and fumble with your belt.

The brief thought of undoing your own belt falls flat when you feel the sharp snap of Robert pulling it free in one go. Your hips jut forward with the motion, moving up his leg that’s still pressed into your hard on, and your leg must move into his in some way because he gives a sharp inhale beside your ear. The sound rattles your piercings, sending a shock to your nerves and you want to hear it again and again. You finally remember that your hands are functional for more than gripping the door frame, they start grasping at the solid body grinding against you. 

Your fingers find Robert’s shoulders and slide down his arms onto the warm leather hanging at his elbows. It’s well worn, the creases easily folding underneath your hold, showing how flexible it’s gotten with age, and once you start you can’t seem to stop gently caressing the material, feeling the subtle coarseness between your fingers, nudging open that tactile memory lurking beneath the surface.

You remember the last leather jacket you held in your hands several years ago as you fought the sobs bubbling up from your chest, wrestled with the decision of letting it go, of giving it away for someone else to wear, someone who’d use it for more than just bittersweet comfort in the middle of the night, someone who would wear it and who wasn’t Alex.

Someone who isn’t Alex.

Someone who has their hand tugging at your pants and reaching inside and is not, not, **not-**

You’re gripping the leather into your fists, pushing it back, pushing the body it’s still attached to back, away from you so that they’d stop, so that you’re not crowded or suffocated because the air is so hot and heavy and you can’t breathe or think or or or-

“Is this okay?” The rough voice, the man in the leather jacket, Robert- 

Robert is a step away from you now, his hands away from your hips, his breath no longer by your ear. There’s an intense expression on his face, or at least that’s what it seems like, but his face is always intense, something with furrowed brows and assessing eyes, though you can’t see it very well in the dark, and he still feels too close. 

Everything feels too close.

“Do you want to stop?”

Breathing ragged, you’re still holding onto the leather jacket that’s barely hanging off of him. He can’t move further away until you let go. You need to let go. Goddamnit, why can’t you just let go, just fucking let go, Jes-

“Jesse.”

“Yeah?” You finally answer, why couldn’t you do that before?

“Do you want to stop?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I…. I uh, need to… I’m gonna go,” and suddenly you’re letting go, “Sorry.”

You let go of the leather jacket (“Sorry, I-”) and turn around (“Sorry, I just-”) and fumble with the door until it’s open (“Sorry, I’m-”) and you step outside to the welcome night air.

“I’m sorry.”

You don’t look back.

\--

You don’t know how you make it across the lawns and onto your own front porch, or how you managed to find your keys and unlock your door, or even how you closed it. The inside of the house is as dark as the house you just scrambled from, your familiar furniture in an unfamiliar place, casting shadows that loom and stretch out towards you. 

The hallway is more ominous than it was this morning, the pitch blackness making your heart race, telling you to leave this strange house, to go back to the warm arms of a strange man, but you move your feet and don’t stop until you’re crashing into your new bedroom door and shutting it firmly behind you. You switch your light on, blinking away the spots and the dizziness, then pace the room with an uneasy energy coursing through you, threading your fingers through your messy hair. 

You want to sit down, take a walk, keep your hands busy, go for a long drive, and lay down and never get up. You want to do everything. You want to do nothing.

You just want peace of mind for a few moments, to be honest. 

Instead, you kneel in front of the closest box and start unpacking your clothes, your desk junk, your alarm clock, bed sheets, everything. And while that sudden spike in adrenaline is subsiding, burning away as you turn the room into something familiar, you feel the effects of the night begin to take their toll. The alcohol is heavy in your stomach and head, the brief arousal now becoming an underlining frustration. 

You pull your shirt off, the material sticky and smelling vaguely of whiskey and smoke, and drop it to the floor with your pants following down, and you realize something as you crash face first onto your unmade bed, head hitting the pillow.

Robert still has your belt.

~~~~

“It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay, I promise.”

Alex reassures you weeks after that party. You are standing next to her in front of the tattoo shop she works at in the middle of the city. 

“You don’t have to do this, you know.” And fuck, does she have to be so goddamn sweet about everything? “Especially if it’s only out of spite towards-”

“No,” because that wasn’t that at all. Well, okay maybe a little bit. “I mean, I’m pissed at him, yeah, but I’ve been wanting to do this since I was like, fifteen. And every time I brought it up he’d just spew that shit he does. All _‘You are not living under my roof like some queer_ ’, like fuck him, I’m not living under his roof anymore. I’m living under mine and I wanna do this because I’m my own goddamn adult and I want to. For me.”

You only just realize how thick your voice is getting as you spit the phrase your father often shot at you in garbled, drunken Spanish. It is heavy and poisonous on your own tongue and you resist the urge to wipe your sleeve on it.

“Alright, then,” Alex says. She takes your hand and pulls you inside and drops you into a seat before her. 

Posters and art and chipped paint cover the walls and ceiling. There is a man getting what seems like his hundredth tattoo with how inked he is. Another person nearby, colored hair gelled up into spikes, is fitting a shiny piece through his nose. A couple of leather jackets chat up in the corner. Surprisingly enough, once inside the shop you aren’t nearly as intimidated as you were outside, for some stupid reason. Though, the more you look around the more your eyes end up on Alex as she ties her green jacket around her waist, t-shirt stretching taunt over curves, and as she piles her mass of colored curls back into a bun, and as she pulls her equipment out at her station, fingers quick and skillful with each task. 

“So, how many piercings do you want?” 

Okay, now you’re anxious again.

“Uh. How many?”

She turns back to look at you with a raised eyebrow that could mean a number of things, but all boil down to **‘Answer the damn question.’**

“Right…right,” you straighten yourself in the seat and glance around. “I never really thought… I mean, I want the one, for sure, but more? Can I get more? Like, on my ear?” 

Alex shakes her head and sighs in exasperation, and you’re beginning to think that this will be a common expression she gives you. “Yeah, duh. You can’t just get one. Well, you can, but you’ve been waiting for this moment! Why only one? Hell, why not get a tattoo?”

When she turns you to look at the small wall mirror you look at her reflection with a deadpan, “I honestly don’t think my body could handle that much pain in one sitting.”

A lavish grin spreads on Alex’s face as she snaps on gloves. “Don’t worry, sweet cheeks, I’ll show you what your body can handle.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some key points:  
> Google search Santana shirt, and literally any of them could be what Jesse wears.  
> I really enjoy Mary and feel like depending on the character, some conversations just go differently and I just wanted to be her friend right off the bat.  
> I always imagined Alex as way too cool for Dadsona tbh.  
> There are conflicting opinions and emotions on Joseph and that too will be reflected here.  
> The rambling sentences are suppose to be in correlation with Jesse's thoughts, but idk how well that got across or if it was a mess.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this, thanks for reading. I debated long and hard on whether or not to separate this into 2 chapters, but it felt better all together. Kudos, comments, thoughts, questions welcomed!  
> I have no idea when the next bit will be up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbecue time! Jesse is uncomfortable, Robert is an asshole, Mary tries her best, and Craig is a sweetheart. 
> 
> Thanks for the kudos and reviews for the first chapter, hope yall enjoy this one!
> 
> Warnings this chapter: none I don't think?

“It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay.”

You can hear Alex’s reassurance as you go through your morning routine. When you look yourself in the mirror, when the memory of heat flushes across your skin, when you touch the forming bruises on your neck – immediate embarrassment follows.

You try your best to find something to cover your neck, almost going so far as to ask Amanda for some makeup, but then you realize you’d have to ask your own daughter and that she’d ask you and then you’d have to tell her, and you really don’t want to explain to her that you nearly hooked up with their new neighbor last night but instead freaked out and ran away.

Amanda would prefer not to know, you’re sure. 

The choice left to you is to suck it up and avoid any and all eye contact. Which is hard when Amanda keeps squinting suspiciously at you. Luckily, the bruises disappear quickly.

Days pass since then and your time is filled with more unpacking and rearranging of the house, meeting with Mister Vega, struggling through morning work outs with Craig, subtly comforting Amanda after her rejection letter because if laid on too thick she’ll retreat to her room for hours on end, grocery shopping, and contacting your boss to confirm that, yes, you will be back to work for that weekend night shift. So, needless to say, since that morning after you’ve spent more effort on important issues rather than lamenting over how you completely fucked up a one night stand because you felt his leather jacket.

And it most certainly was not the good kind of fucked up.

At least you haven’t had the awkward displeasure of running into him during your errands or even seeing him outside at all. You do not believe you would survive such an encounter. There’s a small part of you wanting to apologize, find him at the bar or go house to house until you hit his and somehow make it up to him. Honestly, though, you’re entirely sure that would make things worse and you would look like a fool.

The day before the backyard barbeque you bargain with Amanda into helping you make dessert empanadas, guaranteeing her that there would be enough to keep at home as her own personal stash. Time is spent getting the materials and rolling out the dough and smearing filling on Amanda’s nose and her throwing a glob at your head in retaliation. In the morning, you’re busy warming the desserts and choosing an outfit that isn’t a disaster.

Amanda has vetoed any and all Santana shirts, and honestly, you may agree with her this time. It’s only a meet and greet neighborly backyard party – all casual and friendly, so slacks are out of the picture, and the moment you pick up cargo shorts Amanda throws them back down. Needless to say, between the both of you, it takes an embarrassingly long time picking something out to wear. Especially since Amanda refuses on matching outfits.

You both show up thirty minutes late with hot empanadas and an agreement: you wear a nice button up chosen by Amanda and a pair of old jeans chosen by you. 

The fact that you are late at all is most likely a scheme Amanda drew out, but you’ll let it slide.

\--

Joseph is the first to greet you. 

The moment you set the plate down on the table you hear, “Almost thought you wouldn’t show.”

And there he is, all smiles and open arms.

“Yeah, sorry for being late. We got a bit held up. By the food. They’re freshly baked, so be careful.” There are worse things than admitting you couldn’t decide what to wear, but now is not the time for that.

“You bake?” Joseph asks and his smile gets wider. 

Oh, right. He bakes, too.

“Uh, sometimes. And some things. Not a lot, honestly.” 

What if he wants to share baking recipes? Or invite you to bake sales? You only know empanadas and simple cakes. You can’t raise this poor man’s hopes up too much.

“We should bake something for the kids some time.”

Fuck. 

“I’ll show you a few neat tricks I’ve learned.” 

Double fuck.

He jostles you with a pat on the shoulder, like it’s some sort of fun dad joke, and not a set up for his disappointment. 

The next bad joke is when Joseph introduces you to his wife: Mary.

He pecks her on the cheek and she gives a small up turn of her lips, but she’s staring at you with some sort of twisted mirth. 

“I’d shake your hand, but I have a glass of wine and a plate of hotdogs to tend to.”

There’s a laugh bubbling up and you drown it with coughs until you’re actually coughing. 

This seems to be the response she wants because through your tearing eyes you see her teeth gleam.

“Charmed. Welcome to the diverse community, champ.” 

After she walks away Joseph rubs your back and asks if you’re alright.

“I’m fine!” You straighten up and gasp for fresh air. “All good! I’ll just get some water. This party looks great, Joseph. And, Amanda, eating something besides dessert and don’t drink any alcohol. Now where’s that water?”

You’re power walking away from the awkward situation and confused glances. Water definitely sounds like the right choice, but your hands find themselves grabbing a bottle of beer instead. You have work later tonight, and you don’t plan on drinking much, it’s just that things are already off to a horrendous start and you need to get through this barbecue without turning into a disaster, so really, one or two beers won’t hurt.

As you stand there, trying your best to appear casual and not at all on the verge of jumping the fence, you glance at the familiar faces. There’s Hugo, Mat, and Craig to one corner. Poor, Craig looks a bit overwhelmed by their conversation if their exaggerated expressions and hand movements are anything to go by. Then, there’s Joseph and an actual gothic vampire, the former casting looks your way, but you’re not sure if he’s checking on you or trying to imply that he needs help. You glance away from him quickly and onto–

Oh. It’s Robert.

Shit. It’s Robert.

Of course, Robert is here, too.

Alright, Jesse, don’t be weird about this.

You’re trying really hard not to be weird about it, but it’s a small party and there’s not a lot else to look at and he’s not a terrible sight to see. 

So, you stand there, bottle of beer at your lips, you spot his black leather jacket hanging over his arm instead on his shoulders. He stands there with a dull red low-neck shirt, across the yard talking to Brian, or really, having Brian talk to him because Robert is sipping his drink that you are one hundred percent certain is hard liquor. 

Robert must have a sixth sense of paranoia for when someone is watching him since his eyes narrow on you after a few moments. Now you’re just watching each other and you don’t know what he’s seeing or what he’s looking for or waiting on, but you’re sure as hell not going to be the one who moves first. 

Which is fine, because apparently, he moves first. Robert shifts his stance, leans back and looks more at ease than he did a second ago. Like he’s come to a decision. His arm moves and you can’t help but track it down to his hand as it hooks into the front pocket of his torn jeans, not as slack as they were last night, if you remember correctly, now being held by-

He’s wearing your belt.

Your only belt you could find from your boxes that day.

Your belt he pulled off as you were pinned against his door.

Your belt that he never returned. 

Robert is wearing your _piteado_ belt.

That fucking asshole.

You stop mid-drink and hard swallow what’s in your mouth as you glance back up to meet his eyes. He raises one eyebrow, tilts his head very slightly to the side, and you can see a toothy grin spreading behind his glass. 

You frown at him, clutching your bottle in a white knuckled grip with furrowed brows and spiking anger because that’s your goddamn belt that he’s wearing, parading around like some sort of prize, like an underhanded blackmail bit, like he’s fucking teasing you. And he knows you’re not happy with this at all because he tips his drink towards you in the barest of movements before turning back towards Brian, towards pretending to engage in the conversation once more. Clearly ending this silent encounter.

You still stare.

His shirt is slightly tucked in the front, just enough to show that he has the belt on as the rest of the fabric stays loosely out. It’s a good shirt choice. Long sleeved and flattering, casual with his jeans that fit him just right. But that belt sticks out like an eyesore, tanned leather and white embroidery, sitting snug at his waist and right above his-

You really need to stop staring. 

Maybe it’s just for you, this message, so you know what you two did and almost did and didn’t do, but either way that belt is evidence and he’s calling you out. Or maybe it’s blackmail, because no one knows that’s your belt, except for maybe Amanda but thank goodness she’s busy entertaining Daisy, and the only time you wore it was at the bar, so no one here knows it could possibly be yours except-

Except…

In a sudden panic, your eyes leave Robert and search around for someone else, for the one other person who could realize that Robert is wearing something that is not his. 

And there she is, leaning a few feet away from you against the house, grin in place like she’s a Cheshire cat and you’re poor Alice lost in Wonderland.

“Well, hello there, champ.” Mary makes her way over at a casual pace, knowing you’re caught in her sights. “Fancy meeting you here by the drinks. Again.”

“Ah, yes. Hello for the third time, Mary.” You turn completely away from Robert, hoping to somehow stop whatever incoming connection Mary may draw. “No offense, but I don’t see how any of this is fancy,” you gesture towards the plastic cups on the table and cans and bottles in the cooler of ice. “The only thing that measures up is your glass of wine.”

“Hmm, I do try my best to surpass others.” She stands beside you to stare out at the yard full of guests. “But, I gotta say, Robert is sure looking dressed up today.”

You don’t bother to turn around because you already know what’s coming.

“He’s got a nice shirt on, no booze or pit stains.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmhmm. Those are one of his finer jeans, too. You can tell because there’s less tears.”

You down a few mouthfuls of beer. “You don’t say.”

“Yep. And, oh, wow, he’s wearing a new belt. Now, that’s rather fancy.”

“Oh?”

She turns her gaze onto you. “I wonder where he got that from.”

“Where indee-”

“Cut the shit, Jesse.”

You promptly shut up. You also still refuse to turn around.

“He couldn’t have been that bad, champ. Or was he so good you can’t look at him without getting a hard on?”

“ _Jesus Christ, can you not say that?_ ” Your voice pitches up and you feel heat burning at your cheeks. “That’s not… I mean, we didn’t really… do anything.”

“What, he not into your extreme wrestling fetish?”

You hand finds your face and stays there. “There was kissing. That’s all.”

“That was all? And yet your belt is on him.”

“It was very heated kissing. But, that is still all.”

There is a moment of suspicious silence where you are sure Mary is going over this information. She sips her drink and looks away.

“I know. I was just messing with you.” 

You turn to her and this casual drop of intimate knowledge. “You know?”

She raises an eyebrow at your stupidity. “I know everything that goes on here. Of course, I know you didn’t sleep with Robert.”

That is not the most unbelievable thing to hear, but still…

“You were teasing me.” 

“Don’t pout at me. My kids do it better and they’re cuter.”

“Why even ask me about it then?” 

Mary takes a few seconds to mull over her drink. She’s mocking you, you can tell. “To tease you, obviously. And to see what you’d say.”

You’re not entirely sure what she means by that. There is no reason for you to lie about it, avoid it entirely, sure, but not lie. You’re a grown adult with a sex life that has been less than healthy for the past few years and you’re trying very hard to overcome that. And lying about sleeping with Robert is not the way to help. 

Mary’s profile takes a sudden and slight slouch, creases becoming darker as she frowns and breathes out a sigh. When you follow her gaze, you’re back to staring at Robert, right where he was a few minutes ago. But the more you look this time, you see a new target of Robert’s ire.

Joseph.

Or maybe it’s just his regular annoyance. It’s hard to tell. You’ve only ever seen disgruntled or wolfish expressions, and you’re not sure why he’d be glaring daggers at Joseph. 

Joseph, who is Mary’s husband. 

And Mary herself being well acquainted with Robert.

Robert, who she is staring rather forlornly at right now.

The same Robert who you nearly slept with, but didn’t, but Mary still questioned you about.

The same Mary who drunkenly flirted with you at the bar, but you turned down, but Robert still questioned you about.

And holy shit.

What kind of television soap opera love triangle did you walk into?

How the hell do you walk out? Do you have to move again? Is it too late to do that?

The air seems quiet around Mary and you, despite the noise of the party and your internal crisis. Whatever you’ve stumbled onto, this thing between Mary and Robert and possibly Joseph now somehow has entangled you. Or maybe you’re just watching from the outside, a hapless audience to this cul-de-sac drama, this sifting of weight and burden on their shoulders. 

For a quick few seconds Mary is the woman at the bar needing a drink and a good laugh, not a minister’s wife hosting a community get together. Seeming to remember herself, Mary straightens her posture, pulls her shoulders back, and holds herself up to being that sharp edged woman once more.

“Well, I’m done with this conversation and it looks like Robbie could use another distraction.” She sets down her glass, musses your hair around, and shoves you from behind in quick succession.

Unexpected in action and strength, you find yourself staggering towards Robert, Brian, and the newly joined vampire. The sudden beginnings of a sentence behind you from Joseph-

“-no need to be aggressive towards Jesse, Mary.”

“Oh, lighten up, he needed the push.”

-fading as you start to hear the ongoing conversation between the three men in front of you. They pause as you come to a stop. 

“Hey there! Uh. Neighbors.” 

“Are you alright? That was quite the stumble,” is the concern from the very gentlemanly vampire.

“Yes! I just… tripped on, uh,” you look back and no longer see Mary. “It’s nothing. Probably,” you turn back with a strained smile, and as you comb your hair back from being a mess, you realize Mary had taken out your ponytail. That sly woman. “I hope I didn’t interrupt.”

“Not at all, Jesse!” is Brian’s boisterous voice, “We were just discussing new home renovations! Have you met these guys yet?”

You can only give a brief nod towards Robert, so you opt to introducing yourself to the other gentleman whose name you learn is Damien. The conversation picks up where it left off with Brian bragging about his living room and Damien explaining his choice of black paint. It’s all very suburban – different from the gossip of auto shops and tattoo parlors and who’s turn it was to watch to the children. 

Your eyes quickly latch onto Amanda, already with a group of kids, showing something demonstrative, keeping their attention and gaining their admiration. She always has been good with others, and you’re reminded of Amanda corralling the apartment kids together during the last roof top cook out just weeks before. She would see some of them again at school and during her trips back, but it is still different, still a change in the everyday routine. You know she’ll miss what you’ve left behind, but Amanda has always been adaptable, a trait she did not get from you.

Aside from living in the small and shitty college house shared with six other guys, you never lived in a real house – in a real neighborhood - like this before. First was the small and crowded apartment with your family, then the comfortable complex with Alex and Amanda. Friends were just a few feet away on the other side, having get togethers span across the entire floor and onto the roof, conversations on changing times and politics and television dramas and latest motorcycle showcases. It was never home design or lawn care or house painting. This is new territory, new people, new everything.

You're terrible at new things.

But that was the point of moving here, wasn’t it? To get away from deep roots, from the constant reminders that made you double back every glance and every step to ensure you didn’t hear Alex around the corner or expect her to walk in through the door or lay down on the bed beside you. You moved to start anew because you couldn’t wear the old anymore, it had become too tight and constricting.

That still doesn’t make this less awkward or strange, though you suppose maybe that’s why you take peculiar solace in folks like Mary and Robert, despite their own drama. They are familiar and remind you of home, close enough to the old to be comforting, but still vastly novel. Looking at Robert as he takes a long, bored sip of his drink, a shadow of nostalgia swells in your chest. You think, yeah, getting past the drama and the oddity, you could be friends with this guy.

You glance at your belt still sitting on his waist.

After you get that back.

“See something you like?” You glance back up, realizing Robert caught you staring. Again.

At the belt.

Your belt.

“ _Yes, something that belongs to me,_ ” the words slipping off your tongue, too indignant and chaffed to care. There’s something satisfying with telling someone off when they don’t understand you.

A small noise brings you to Damien who looks back wide eyed, his hand covering his mouth.

Oh, shit.

You feel your muscles tense, heat rapidly flaring across your skin. You want the earth to open up and sink you down, you’re unable to break this eye contact. You only hope he didn’t understand that fully or take it the wrong way.

Damien turns an even brighter red. 

Oh, fuck.

“ _I didn’t mean it like that!_ ” You explain, voice pitching high.

“What? What did you say?” Brian asks.

“Nothing! It was nothing!”

“That sure didn’t sound like nothing, Jesse, c’mon.”

“It was nothing, Robert!”

“What’d he say, Damien?”

“Well-”

“ _Do not answer that, please._ ”

“Speaking in code?” Robert squints between the two of you.

“It’s Spanish, Robert,” Damien sighs.

“So, what’s he denying, then?”

“It was a slip of the tongue is all! That’s it.”

“Oh? Is that what it’s called these days?”

“What? That doesn’t even make sense! I was just….noticing the belt.”

You snap your mouth shut, instant regret flushing across your face. Robert’s cheeky grin shows once more, an air of smugness seeping from him as his hands reach down to readjust the object of your current misery. Your eyes catch the movement from below, but you force yourself to stay strong and focused on Robert’s challenging expression. You’ve been caught staring at that thing, and inadvertently Robert’s crotch, twice now. Three times and you’re going to fucking die from embarrassment. 

“Ah, this old thing? Should’ve told me sooner,” his voice takes on a different tone, all grandiose in his attempt at being casual. It was a trap from the very beginning, that asshole.

Damian clears his throat before adding, “I have been wondering myself at your choice of accessory for this event. It’s quite fascinating in design and material, though not ….your usual aesthetic that we are used to.”

“It’s weird, Robert.”

“Thanks, Brian. Good eye, there, Dames,” Robert seems to settle into himself, relaxing his posture like he’s addressing an audience. “That’s ‘cause it wasn’t mine to choose. It was given to me.”

“A gift?”

“Yep. Left to me in a hurry.”

His eyes go right back to you, not in emphasis, but as he looks each of you in the face, to hold everyone’s attention. And yet you cannot stop the reaction of a deeper frown as you cross your arms. 

What the hell is he playing at?

“See, it was left to me by a guy I met on a hunt awhile back,” Robert started, moving his gaze towards the others. “Nothing but us and our flasks and the unforgiving desert lands that held something lurking in the shadows. Locals thought it was some sort of evil, a malignant spirit or demon.”

Is he calling you a drunk or a devil?

“Been hunting this thing for days, going to every abandoned concrete structure we found, and we were finally able to narrow our search to this half standing building folks had been using for raves years back. See, we didn’t know what it was we were gunning for exactly, and that was our stupid mistake, because no matter how stocked up we were, how on our guard and prepped, we were still blind sided. The man got hit pretty bad, nasty claw marks down his chest and back, didn’t have a chance.”

You recall the red, angry lines marked down your sides from Robert’s own hands. You remember gripping his back just as fiercely. 

“I managed to scare it off into the night before trying to patch him up, but lemme tell you, some things can’t be healed by regular medical care. So, there he is, laying in some ratty graffiti’d shithole, in my arms, bleeding everywhere, and he has the gall to tell me to leave him and run. That thing wouldn’t stay away for long, it was attracted to the smell of blood and alcohol.”

Leather and whiskey, you want to correct him. You were attracted to the smell of leather and whiskey.

“We both knew that me carrying him would be a sure route to both our bloody deaths. So, he’s on his deathbed, trusty knife in hand and suddenly pulls this belt off and shoves it at me, tells me it was passed down his family for generations, that he didn’t have any kids or family left, but it has to carry on to some poor soul. Then he starts making these pained howl sounds, like a dying animal, to call that thing back, and I knew it was over, that I couldn’t save him. I ran outta that place and never went back.” 

There’s a long pause where Damian and Brian glance at each other, then back at Robert as he takes a long sip of his drink. This lying asshole just called you a monster, or a dying drunk. He’s pulling this shit out of thin air. You’re about to open your mouth, to comment, to call this fucker out, make him confess – not exactly to the actual truth behind the belt, but to admit that what he said was completely fake. 

He beats you to the punch.

“Figured I might as well wear it to an event like this, purify it of its previous bad event, in a way.”

Is he calling your kissing bad or your sudden running off bad? You open your mouth. Robert looks straight at you and laughs. You close your mouth.

“I’m just kidding,” he smiles with too many teeth. He always smiles with too many teeth.

You narrow your eyes, suspicion alerting you that he’s not quite done. 

Brian and Damian chuckle along nervously with him.

You open your mouth again to speak.

“Or am I?” Robert instantly stops laughing and leans in close towards you, face and tone utterly serious.

You close your mouth again and lean back. 

They stop laughing.

“Wow,” you finally say with just enough reverence and condescension, a gasp of surprise that you’ve perfected in the years spent dealing with unruly patients and snobby interns. “Desert monster or not, it is good to see you’re allowing a belt like this to be within range of positive energy.” 

You have spent years telling stories to children. Two can play at this game.

Robert straightens up and raises an eyebrow. “Know something about it?”

You take it as a cue, “Yeah, see, it’s a _piteado_ belt. A special embroidery on leather common in Latin America that was brought over via the Spaniards, but has since been integrated into the culture. The thread there is made from a cactus plant used in many religious and spiritual ceremonies, blessed before and after being hand stitched into the leather. That’s why it stays so white and neat, and why community events like this are good for it to soak into. They are often used as protective symbols in everyday wear, like on sandals or purses or boots.” You pause for a moment to sip your own drink, watching as Robert try to remain aloof and cool, except for the tight grip he has on his glass and on the front of the belt. 

“Protection against what?” Brian asks and you look away from the belt hanging on Robert’s body.

“ _Curses,_ ” you say, the word slipping out for dramatic effect before you can even second guess it. Brief looks of confusion pass over Robert and Brian. 

“Curses?” Damian asks, his voice equal parts fascinated and wary.

“Exactly. You know…uh, when someone wills a….malicious intent your way. They keep these negative emotions towards you bottled up until they send it all to wreak havoc on your life, usually through a ritual. Maybe in the form of words or desire or something physical. Either way the _piteado_ protects you from all that.” You catch Robert’s eye. “But it has to be a gift to you. Otherwise it becomes a curse itself.”

You cannot remember the last time you’ve bullshitted so spectacularly.

It might have been in college when the gang tried to sneak passed cops busting a party. Or when Amanda was a toddler and found you putting presents under the tree. Or when your friends kept asking for you during the weeks after Alex’s death and you couldn’t tell them that you spent the entire weekend locked inside your room. Needless to say, you’re proud at how well you can bullshit a story.

“You don’t have to worry about all that, though, hmm?” 

“Right.” Robert tugs the rest of the shirt down and over the belt, either an admission to his wrong doing or hiding it from you. Probably the latter.

“Well, it looks like Joseph is putting out the burgers. I best eat some before heading out.”

“What’s the rush?” Brian asks before you could make your escape.

“I work late nights,” you answer as vaguely as possible, feeling inexplicably exposed after this thing with Robert and getting caught by Damien. You’re long since passed being embarrassed by admitting you work as a nurse, but somehow making it publicly known at the neighborhood barbecue in front of these guys dredges up that old uncomfortable sensation. 

Before something else could be asked, you abscond towards the food. With a plate in hand you have idle chit chat with Joseph as he grills, noticing that using actually nice equipment and not a small beat up scrap metal on a roof could make a difference. Though it could also be the quality of meat. Or whatever they put in the patties. Either way, the food is delicious and the light conversation on cooking distracts you enough to forget about the weird Robert-Mary-Joseph triangle you’re caught in. Until Joseph requests you come over again sometime, which would have been a friendly enough notion if you weren’t already privy to the entangled relations surrounding his home. 

You still nod and give a noncommittal answer before giving a brief greeting to Mat, Hugo, and Craig. 

“You doing alright, bro?” Craig turns away from the other two who are wrapped up in an intense conversation about music. “I know the dudes around here can be pretty uh… different than the city, but they’re nice.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, bro. I’m doing fine, just saying hello to everyone. It’s definitely overwhelming, though.” Your eyes scan the yard at a glance, unable to locate Robert or Mary, but finding Joseph still at the grill and shooting looks your way. You divert your gaze before you can lock eye contact. “And definitely different.”

“You’ll be fine, you can be nice yourself when you want to be,” Craig bumps your shoulder with his own.

“Sounds like a lie, but thanks for trying,” you feel a sincere smile start to form, the first since you got there.

“For real, though. You holding up alright? I know it’s your first big move in a while and I know it’s been a few years since… well… know that I’m here for you, bro. I couldn’t be there then but if you need anything now, let me know.” 

Your heart gets stuck in your throat, squeezing tight as you exhale and give a nod and quivering smile. Despite the distance and time spent apart, you feel as at ease with Craig as you did years ago. He doesn’t so much as tiptoe around the obvious subject, as realize you always hated discussing private matters in public and you’ve already complained about the amount of times condolences were handed to you. With Craig it’s always sincere and he always means it. “Thanks. Really, bro. I just gotta get used to living out here, but I think Amanda and I can get used to it. This suburban style. Probably.”

Craig gives a small laugh as he pulls you into a firm hug, never afraid with his affection or who could see. “Bro, I know Amanda ain’t going to have any problems. You take care of yourself, too.” 

You give a confirming vocable, patting your old friend on the back and for once not caring what these new eyes around you see. Craig always gave the best hugs. “I’ll talk to you later, bro. Gotta get some shut eye before shift tonight.”

He releases you with a ruffle of your hair before you can walk away, “Bro, you back to doing ER night? That’s good!”

“Yeah, I think so, too. Take it easy, bro,” you call back as you round up your daughter.

\---

“Have a good time, Papa? Talk to other dads? Make some friends? I saw you going about like the social butterfly you’re meant to be.”

“Why do you like to tease me so? Your own father? Before his first night back to work?” You meet her enthusiastic questions with a tone of fake hurt.

“Because you’re not nervous and I want to make sure you have friends you can see every day.” When she places her hands on her hips she becomes a spitting image of Alex.

“I have friends-”

“Friends you can see every day that aren’t at the hospital, Papa.”

You give in too easily. “Yes, yes, I know, Annita. I will make friends with the other boys in the neighborhood. For now, though, let your antisocial and tired father take a nap and recharge after the agonizing afternoon he had pretending to be a social butterfly.”

She stares at you unimpressed and judging until she folds her arms with a sigh. “Fine. I’ll cut you some slack, your first day and all.”

“How kind of you.”

“As long as I can go out with my friends tonight?” 

You pause for a moment and look at the hopeful expression in her big eyes and puppy dog pout. It would be the first time she goes out and you’re not home to ensure she gets back safely. You’ll be at the hospital, wondering where your daughter is as she gets into teenage mischief, wandering the city with friends, most probably drinking or going to parties, and what if one of them forget her somewhere or drives drunk or runs a stop sign or or or-

“Sure, sweetpea,” you concede against every warning going off in your head. “Just be careful. Let me know when you get home by midnight, okay?”

“Yes! Okay, got it, thanks!” She rushes to her bedroom.

Once your head hits your pillow you can’t help the trepidation creeping through your nerves, leaving you wary and nervous. 

“It’s okay,” you tell yourself aloud. 

This move is okay. Your new neighbors are okay. You making friends is okay. Amanda is okay.

“It’s gonna be okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There we go! 
> 
> I wanted to fit the entire bbq scene in one chapter and it kinda got away from me, with all the interactions Jesse has. A bit worried it'll give the overall tone of the chapter whiplash, but hey, what can ya do when there's a lot to cover. 
> 
> Just so yall know the stuff about the piteado belt is only partially true. The supernatural bit Jesse absolutely bullshitted.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jesse's first night back at the ER leads to an unusual morning. It's an emotional roller coaster for him.

“It’s gonna be okay,” says the feminine voice beside you, bumping a shoulder into yours. “Amanda is like, what eighteen now? It’s a Saturday night and she’s out with her friends. She’ll be okay, Jesse.”

You turn your miserable expression from your phone, which holds three non-responded texts and one missed call to your daughter, to the woman beside you. “Anything could happen, Christine. It’s an hour past her curfew and not even a simple message back, like ‘hey, dad, I’m home’ or ‘sorry, was having fun, goodnight.’ Is that really too much to ask?”

“First night back and this is how you are?” She sighs, grabbing ahold of your shoulders to fully face her. “Look, this happens all the time. She forgets to message you, her phone is on silent, she’s just…. being a teenager. You remember what it’s like, right? Did you always tell your parents where you were all the time?”

No, you think. 

You never told your father where you were because then he would find you. 

He would see you weren’t doing volunteer work, weren’t doing school papers, weren’t taking an extra job shift. Your father would find you at Derrek’s house, in his basement, on his lap. Or at Lucas and Myra’s apartment, nestled between them on their futon. Or even sitting behind the old arcade, a pack of smokes between you and the gang. You never told him where he could find you because you wanted to stave off his presence until you got home, until you could face him and his slurs and whatever object he wanted to throw next in a drunken fury. In fact, you barely kept in contact with him when you left his home and went to college. 

And there’s no point in telling your mother where you were, since she’d been out of contact for years.

Christine takes your silence and uncomfortable look as an agreement. “See? Don’t worry so much. Let these stacks of files distract you until the next drunkard with a broken bone comes in.”

When she walks away you glance at your phone again to ensure Amanda didn’t respond while you weren’t looking. You decide you’ll give her thirty more minutes before you call again. Meanwhile, every response to the hospital that comes in has you on edge – your ears open for any car crash or party gone wrong or group of drunk teens, because any one of those could be the dreaded moment you are hoping would never happen. 

\--

It’s creeping towards a quarter til two when Amanda calls you back. There’s been nothing but files and reports and well-intentioned-but-goddamn-annoying youngsters trying to show you the ropes when you could do this with your eyes closed, so you immediately dive for the break room and answer your phone, ignoring the looks from a pair on the couch.

“ _Amanda? Are you okay? Where are you? Are you at home? Did something happen?_ ”

“Woah, Pops, calm down,” she yawns into your ear and you don’t hear any signs of distress or emergency or sirens on the other side, just the running of the sink water. “Nothing happened. I didn’t notice your messages until now, just calling to let you know I’m back in.”

The pressure that had been building finally eases loose, but is swiftly replaced by the tired frustration only a worried parent could muster. You pace the break room. “ _At nearly two at night?_ ”

“We lost track of time, is all. It’s fine,” she says, dismissal in her tone, as if you didn’t spend the past several hours with your nerves wired and taut. 

“ _No, Amanda Annita Jerez, it is not fine!_ ” Your voice pitches higher, you’re slipping away from the calm and rational approach that you could never quite hold onto during duress.

“Jeez, okay, breaking out the full name here. I’m at home and calling you now.” There’s a thinning patience to her words, and you know a rebellious comeback when it’s baring its fangs.

“ _Nearly two hours after curfew! You didn’t answer any of my calls or texts, I’m at work stressing out about what could have happened-_ ”

“You’re overreacting! Nothing happened! I’m okay. Everything. Is. Oh-kay!”

“ _How is that okay? Not answering your phone is okay? Not letting me know you’re safe is okay?_ ”

“Papa, seriously, it’s no big deal! I can take care of myself! What, are you going to be like this when I go off to school, too?”

You inhale sharply, a stillness expanding in your lungs, stretching out between the phone lines for almost too long at the mention of Amanda’s upcoming departure. A stinging blow that has you rubbing your forehead where a headache is beginning to form. The sudden deflation of your argument takes the wind out of you. Calming breaths only emphasize the pounding blood in your veins.

So blinded by your own faults you forgot how to properly speak to your own daughter, how to be forward and honest, like Alex always encouraged. Your mouth opens and closes at the loss of how to lay out all your worries for Amanda to understand. With your residing temper and mounting exhaustion, that’s really all you want right now: for her to understand.

“ _I… I was scared, Annita. You weren’t responding and… and I just… I always worry when you go out, especially after…after your mother and I can’t…_ ” Something stops your from finishing that sentence; a different kind of pressure that’s heaving and sharp, focused behind your eyes and in your throat.

It’s two o’clock at night, you still have three more hours on shift and you’re arguing with your daughter and you’re very tired and you refuse to cry right here, right now in the goddamn hospital break room.

After an extended silence, Amanda answers, more subdued than before, “Papa…I’m sorry.”

“I know, I know. I’m sorry, too,” sorry you can’t let her just enjoy her youth without triple checking how she’s doing, sorry you suffocate her with your fears and failings, sorry you don’t trust her enough, sorry you still can’t do this parenting thing right, sorry you’re not Alex, you’re just you with your debilitating issues that only hold her back, you’re so sorry for everything you can’t give her, “Just… get some rest, okay?”

“Yeah, I will.” There’s a quiet moment, her hesitance palpable through the phone, “Goodnight, Papa. I love you.”

Your response is automatic, always ready and willing, and at least you can give her this, “I love you, too, Annita.”

You stare at your blank phone screen for a few more moments, composing yourself and rubbing at the pulsing headache.

“Need a break?” Christine asks from the doorway with a pack of smokes in hand and sympathy in her eyes, probably waiting until you were done to approach you. With a quick sweep of the area, you see the younger nurses conveniently gone. 

What a great first night back.

It has been months since your last cigarette, probably around the time Amanda was first looking at colleges and filling out applications. You give a great big sigh and nod your head.

“I really, really do.” You follow her outside and accept the offered cig and lighter.

No matter how often you smoked in the past, you’re sure you never got around to looking cool while doing it. Always fidgeting and switching hands and trying not to cough after every first inhale. You suppose quitting full stop is the right choice towards a healthier lifestyle, though really, managing to cut back to only the occasional stress smoke is all you can do, and it was only because of Alex, and then Amanda, that you cut back at all. Working in emergency medicine isn’t conducive to that progress, but hey, nobody said this shtick was easy. 

There are minute tremors in your hands as you thumb the lighter repeatedly for a flame, residual vexation still riding the last of its waves. The mechanical aspect of this is something to focus on, even as Amanda’s jabbing words repeat themselves in the back of your mind, over and over again until each syllable loses meaning as it all becomes another weight pulling you down. 

_She can take care of herself. Are you going to be like this when she goes off to school?_

You take the first draw, hot heady smoke and cool night air filling your mouth, then wrapping around your lungs like a warm blanket. 

_Are you going to be like this when she goes off to school?_

A few seconds pass, more fresh air inhaled, expanding your insides, tighter and tighter. 

_Are you going to be like this when she goes off to school? Areyougoingtobelikethiswhenshegoesofftoschool? ___

__You hold it in for another moment, until the warmth seeps deeper in, until the throbbing in your skull diminishes, until your lungs demand a release._ _

___Areyougoingtobelikethiswhenshegoesofftoschool? Areyougoingtobelikethiswhenshegoesofftoschool? Areyougoingtobelikethiswhenshe-_ _ _

__Lips kept closed, rich smoke escapes through your nose, your chest compresses back down._ _

___-goesofftoschool? Whenshegoesofftoschool? Whenshegoesofftoschool?_ _ _

__The taste of mild wood and bitter ash fills your mouth, thick atop your tongue and in the back of your throat. A pleasant familiarity keeping you centered._ _

___When she goes off to school?_ _ _

__“I told you, Jesse,” Christine finally says with an inhale of her own, tonight’s boring shift weighing on each of the dark circles under her eyes._ _

___What are you going to do?_ _ _

__“Oh, and what was that?” You respond indulgently, taking another draw and watching the lit end smolder._ _

___When she goes off to school?_ _ _

__There’s an exhale of twirling smoke that you chase with your own. The headache dulls down more, balancing with the nicotine’s benevolent dizziness._ _

___What are you going to do when she goes off to school?_ _ _

__“It’ll be okay.”_ _

__\---_ _

__The sunrise was never a scenery Alex and you cherished together._ _

__When you were young it meant that the bars were closed, that the night was done, that you had to go pass out and hope you didn’t wake up with a killer hangover. When you were older, it meant your shift was ending, that it was time to go home and kiss Alex good morning so she could start her day and you could get some rest. When you had Amanda it meant nudging each other out of bed until one of you calmed your crying baby down and then start the process over again in a few hours. It was just the marking of another day for Team Jerez: Alex and Amanda and you._ _

__And then it became just Amanda and you._ _

__Afterwards, every sunrise you hated more and more. It was a taunting thing that reminded you of another day without Alex, another day she would never get to see, another day you had to overcome._ _

__Sometimes, though, when your head is full and your heart aches, when you need to empty yourself of all the mess scrambled inside, when you feel the walls caving and collapsing, you sit outside under the vastness of the sky and beyond and watch the night fade as the morning colors bleed through._ _

__A few weeks back you would have been able to sit on a lawn chair on top of the apartment roof, a few spare minutes before your clinic shift._ _

__Nowadays, you don’t even know how to get onto the roof of this house without the risk of falling off and breaking a damn bone, so the car’s trunk will have to do. Luckily, Christine was generous enough to give you an extra cigarette for the road. Two in one day seems a bit much for your standards now, especially when there’s nothing to even really be stressing out about. Amanda is inside the house, sleeping safe and sound. When she wakes up you’ll cook breakfast and reassure her you’re not mad, you love her very much, and she’s growing to be a responsible young adult. Then, she’ll probably crack something wise about your age or the gray hairs starting to show, and you’ll hug and move on. Just like your parent-and-teenager arguments usually go._ _

__But right now? Right now you want to sit on your car and watch the cul-de-sac be empty and quiet and try to become the same, to exist in this liminal space for a while longer and enjoy the mix of wood and ash. You want to stop questioning your own parenting adequacy, like you know what the hell you’re doing raising an eighteen year old daughter who’s planning on moving across the country to college. With every exhale of smoke, you want to melt away the expectation that you’re ready for any of that._ _

__Because holy fuck are you not ready._ _

__“What am I gonna do, Alex?”_ _

__In this peaceful state of being, where you can ask rhetorical questions to your dead wife aloud, what you do not expect is an answer. Especially when that answer is the sound of a low yapping bark, or the form of a small black and white ball streaking towards you from across the street. When it stops in front of you, it stands on its tiny hind legs and stares up at you with large eyes too far apart its large head._ _

__It’s a dog. A small-ish dog that barely reaches the top of the car’s back bumper._ _

__“Uh…hello, there,” you tilt your head to get a better look at the gleaming collar that shows a name, “little Betsy.”_ _

__The dog opens her mouth and a slobbering tongue lolls out as she sniffs and snorts at your shoes._ _

__“I don’t think floor cleaner, vomit, and hospital soap smell very good,” you say with an inhale of smoke._ _

__The next motion is her large, wet tongue lapping at the chunks probably still stuck under your shoe, somehow finding the combination of emergency shift mayhem delightful to taste._ _

__Surprised, you jerk back, lifting your feet up and onto the trunk while the rest of you is caught off guard and chokes on smoke. Your hand without the cigarette is fisted in front of your mouth as you hack and cough, your torso curling forward but your body leaning back to keep balance. Betsy yaps up at you, your collective noises echoing out to the street and most probably disturbing the quiet peace of the early morning._ _

__Needless to say, you’re sure you also look really ridiculous._ _

__“Fuckin’ hell,” you manage to gasp out, airway finally clear for a fresh breath. With the last of your coughs subsiding, the dog’s barks also quiet down, possibly sensing that the distress has passed._ _

__“Pretty much, yeah. I thought you were gonna die right there.”_ _

__Or possibly, the dog was distracted by the presence of someone else. Someone that just witnessed you having a fit atop a car trunk with a small dog trying to reach you. You unfurl yourself into a normal sitting position and see Betsy sitting happy-as-can-be beside that person._ _

__“Good thing you didn’t. Would’ve been an embarrassing obituary. Man dies from fright caused by small unknown dog.”_ _

__Goddamnit, Robert._ _

__“Goddamnit, Robert, your dog didn’t scare me,” you lift your hand to show the cigarette as the true fiend, but find it gone. A strange moment passes as you look at your hand and then down on the ground where the dimming light rests._ _

__Robert’s gaze follows and he stifles a hiccup of a noise. “I stand corrected. It’ll say: True member of the Jets, his first cigarette on his last dying day.”_ _

__“Do not turn my hypothetical obituary into a musical reference,“ you warn, “And do not imply I was part of a white, racist gang.” you slide yourself off your car and after a moment’s deliberation step the cigarette out. A part of you feels guilty for wasting it. The smarter part of you knows you shouldn’t be craving its last remains. “Also, this was not my first smoke.”_ _

__“And this dog I’m watching over isn’t mine,” he counters you with a suddenly serious tone, arms crossed over his chest, like he’s daring you to call him out as you did yesterday afternoon. “She belongs to an elderly woman in town that’s been in hiding for over thirty years for a bank heist and speed chase. Her only companion is this dog that can spot a cop a block away, and whom she has entrusted me to walk every morning and night. I don’t take this job lightly.” The entire spiel is straight faced and no nonsense. Just like his story at the barbecue, and you’re beginning to think this is just how Robert is, for some odd reason or another._ _

__Betsy wiggles her entire body against Robert’s leg in demand for pettings until she falls over, rubbing her back on the concrete with so much stupid enthusiasm it completely off sets any image the glowering man tries to create._ _

__“Okay, well. The dog that is definitely not yours, and definitely belongs to a criminal, likes to lick vomit and cleaner off my shoes. So, despite your awful attempt at my humiliation, I don’t regret stopping a strange dog from eating gross shit.” You cross your own arms in defiance. Something in his intimidating stance sets your own hairs on end. Whether he’s joking or not, you never let tough guys push you around before, and you sure as hell aren’t going to start now with Robert and his ridiculous stories._ _

__Robert raises an eyebrow at your snark, most likely, and you take the moment to assess the fact that the man before you is still wearing yesterday’s outfit – though his pants are suspiciously loose on his hips. And you’re still wearing dirty scrubs with bleach stains._ _

__That aside, you’re pretty sure if desperate enough, you could take him._ _

__Probably._ _

__If Betsy doesn’t get in the way or he doesn’t pull out a knife or something._ _

__“You look like someone who would carry a knife in his pocket.”_ _

__Robert loosens his posture and there’s a shift about him as you feel instinct seize your muscles and heat trickle through your skin. You didn’t mean to say that aloud, but that seems to happen more often than not and now Robert is adjusting to smirks and soft edges hiding sharp points. Points that will probably stab and kill you with embarrassment. He steps closer to you at a languid pace. You refuse to back down._ _

__“Or maybe I’m just happy to see you.” His words drip heavy when he’s several feet from you, the change in atmosphere a déjà vu of whiplash._ _

__Despite the flush you know to be scorching your cheeks, you keep your frown and do your best to look disapproving and unimpressed. “That was terrible. You’re terrible.”_ _

__That only makes his grin grow wider. “Yeah, I’m a bad man.”_ _

__Your breath nearly catches. “The worst.”_ _

__He takes a step closer. “A goddamn mess.”_ _

__“And a thief.” At his pause you add, “So, where’s my belt, Robert?”_ _

__“What?” He immediately regroups himself, eyebrows suggestive, “Gonna spank me with it? Is that my curse?”_ _

__You want to laugh and punch him at the same time. His attempts at… well, you’re not entirely sure if it’s flirting or normal conversation, but the casual ease of this push-pull teasing is entertaining at the very least. His approach to tiptoeing along your boundaries has you hyperaware of every movement, however harmless they may seem. The result of a few nights ago still burn a hole in the back pocket of your memory, and you are not aiming to make a fool out of yourself again._ _

__But still, this is fun._ _

__“If you want to be hit and cursed at, I can give you that,” you take a step forward, closing some distance but keeping the space open. “But I still want my belt back.”_ _

__“Is that all you want?” Robert leans in, his feet not moving him any closer, but there’s no need since he’s not but a foot away. Close enough that you need to tilt your head slightly back to keep eye contact._ _

__At this distance you can note the effects of an entire day spent drinking. It’s in the bloodshot sclera of his glassy eyes that can’t seem focus. It’s on his stained shirt and on his breath like an overused perfume of cheap alcohol. He sways slightly on his feet at the disturbance of leaning forward too much. After years of personal and professional experience, you’re entirely certain that this man is fucking wasted._ _

__An uncomfortable familiarity blooms under your skin, replacing the buds of excitement from just moments ago. It makes itself suddenly known in that way that old reminders do. Like a skipped beat of a heart that momentarily forgot how to contract properly - small, but noticeable and alarming. Adrenaline spikes, increasing the pounding in your chest and you’re realizing your breath is stuck there, not even making it passed your throat. You don’t want to smell the lingering thickness of acidic bile, but the ethanol is sweet against your senses and you want to drink it in just as much as you want to push it away. With that thought, the blood that rushed to your face now drains just as quickly. There’s a part of your limbic system that’s pulsing and flashing warning signs._ _

__Which is dumb because there’s nothing wrong. It’s just Robert, drunk off his ass._ _

__Stop freaking out, Jesse._ _

__You keep telling yourself that, that there is nothing to be afraid of, but your foot still shifts back until you feel the press of the metal bumper. As Robert tilts his head and squints, expectant and waiting, maybe sensing the change, you steel yourself back up from the misstep. This is supposed to be fun. This banter or word play or whatever the fuck this is. You were having fun and you’re sick of yourself turning away because of momentary relapses that shouldn’t even matter. So, with resolve, you give a serene smile back to the wolf’s grin._ _

__“And a pack of smokes and bottle of tequila, too, if you’re aiming to please.”_ _

__He does laugh at that. Robert leans away from you, head thrown back and eyes crinkled shut as the laughter echoes from his belly and passed his alcohol-abused throat, unrestrained and delighted, out into the open morning air. There’s a saying that tells of people looking younger when they laugh, of happiness and joy shedding years away. You don’t see how that can be true, with the amount of creases by Robert’s eyes and mouth and how the morning sun reveals the light grey speckling his hair. Robert doesn’t look younger, his edges are still sharp and he’s tense with a full body laugh, but there’s a change somehow. Even as he quiets down, the corners of his mouth remain upturned and his brows don’t return to being perpetually furrowed. His shoulders stay slanted and nearly relaxed, his hands stuffed into his jean pockets. Overall, Robert looks almost approachable._ _

__“Sure, sure. I’ll get right on that,” he’s starting to step back and away, still facing you as your conversation stretches the distance._ _

__“I mean it, Robert. My belt, one pack, and one bottle.”_ _

__“Still gonna hit me nice and hard if I deliver the goods?”_ _

__“Depends, do you carry around a knife in your pocket?”_ _

__There’s that loose and loud bark of laughter again as Robert turns around to cross the rest of the way to his house, Betsy already ahead of him. He gives a parting wave over his shoulder before he reaches his door._ _

__“Catch you later, nurse!”_ _

__The further he walks away, the dimmer the smell of alcohol. You enjoyed the distraction while it lasted. Though you feel yourself relaxing more and more with his absence, irritation pricks at the back of your mind at that realization. You’ve been around drunk Robert before, you’ve specifically drank with him, you were just having an entertaining conversation, and yet for some reason your instincts are kicking a fuss now._ _

__The shitty thing is, you know why._ _

__It’s been over a decade and yet his ghost still manages to find you, to find ways to inconveniently remind you that no matter how old you are you still carry the weight of your younger self. Your insecurities and fears and apprehensions always at the edge of your peripheral. The moment you catch their moving shadows you feel your heart race and muscles tense, your stomach clench and your breath still. You dread them coming into full sight, like seeing them will confirm that they’re true, that you’re really as fucked up as he always said._ _

__You turn back towards your own house – still a new home – and feel the inkling of anxiety weighing heavy in your gut. The morning sun is just becoming visible and Amanda will be getting up soon, the routine of school hours engrained into her no matter how late she stays up. She’ll go grab a glass of water and you’ll intercede with a plate bacon and pancakes with chocolate chips, ready along with an apology._ _

__Because no matter how many times your mind tries to trip you up, no matter how often you feel the burden of his ghost over your shoulder, Alex’s voice is always louder._ _

__~~~_ _

__“Babe, it’s okay.”_ _

__“But it’s not! God, I just- I yelled at her! I knew she was goading me, trying to hurt me, and I still fell for it!”_ _

__“She’s ten and has a temper-”_ _

__“I know that, Alex! I know. But I still yelled at her. I’m the adult and I- and now she hates me.”_ _

__“She doesn’t hate you.”_ _

__“She just said it! Screamed it at me! That’s as clear as it can get. She hates me!”_ _

__“Hey, no, c’mon now. You both lost your temper, it’ll be okay.”_ _

__“But what if it’s not? What if she always hates me? What if I can’t fix this?”_ _

__“We’ll fix this-”_ _

__“What if this happens again? Keeps happening? What if I can’t… Oh God, what if I turn into him? Just keep losing my temper, always angry and a mess and Amanda hates me more and more, and she grows up and still hates me, and I can’t help it, I can’t fix thi-”_ _

__“Hey! Stop. Stop thinking that right now, Jesse. Amanda loves you. You love her. These squabbles will happen. That’s what parenting brings us. And we can work through them. We can learn and be different than our parents. But, love, don’t. Don’t ever think you’re like him because you’re not.”_ _

__“But I-”_ _

__“No. Jesse, no. The fact that you care at all. The fact that you’re trying. That is infinitely more than he ever did, than he ever gave you. So, listen.”_ _

__“Alex-”_ _

__“No, hey, look. Look at me…You, Jesse. You are not your father. You are better. And this? This will pass. You'll both breathe, come back and apologize to each other, hug each other, share a plate of chocolate chip pancakes, and you’re gonna be okay. You hear me? You're both gonna be okay.”_ _

__“Really?”_ _

__“It’s gonna be okay.”_ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was harder to chug out but once I had an idea of how to bring it back full circle it fit nicely. Well I hope it does.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> hey there folks, back on my bullshit!  
> heres the first date chapter and its a long one! Sorry it took awhile...  
> I cannot say when the next one will be up either, but I have plans!  
> Warnings: alcohol consumption, mild violence

It's Wednesday when you have a free day again, your new nocturnal schedule setting you against the flow of your neighbors. You haven't seen any of them since the weekend and have only been in contact with Craig since you're trying to agree on a work out schedule, though you think he's going to exercise in the morning and then again in the evening to catch you before work. 

Bless him for his determination.

Amanda has adapted to the new change of setting and schedule well, not that you expected anything less. You coordinated the move with her spring break and she's been back to school this week, so while she's off getting her education you're passed out in your room with the blinds shut and a new window curtain closed. It doesn't totally drown out the noise, but you noticed a lamented sign on the door that reads ‘Do Not Disturb At Any Hour. Call Ahead For Appointment.’ You’ve accepted Amanda’s apology gift just as she devoured your apology chocolate chip pancakes and everything has gone pretty much back to normal since. 

You’re both enjoying a night in, her laptop playing some background music you’ve never heard as she works on a digital picture project and you read through a medical journal. It’s nice and domestic and just the thing to turn this still strange house into a home. You are also getting updated texts from Christine as she describes catching some interns making out in a supply closet. 

That’s when you get the unexpected message.

 **Unknown:** hey nerd

 **Unknown:** wyd

You look at the strange texts and pause everything else. “Amanda?” At the noise of confirmation that she heard, you move from your desk to leaning over the back of the couch, showing your daughter the messages. “Do you know this number? Or what the hell this means?”

She blinks at your phone, “Nope, and it means ‘what you doing’. Know anyone that’d call you a nerd?”

Quite a few folks, actually, though majority of them you already have in your contacts. In fact, only one person comes to mind, now that you think about it. And right on cue your phone pings.

 **Unknown:** hey cmon

 **Unknown:** cmon champ answer me

 **Unknown:** I know this is u Craig wouldnt lie 

**Unknown:** to me bc Im scary

 **Unknown:** heeeeyyy chaaaaaammmp

“I think this is Mary,” you finally say as the messages keep coming.

Amanda shifts her laptop onto the coffee table and takes your phone fully into her hands. “No way! Mary as in the priest's drunk wife? From next door?”

“I think he's a minister? And, yes? That Mary?” You don't actually know if there's a difference between the two holy descriptors.

“Whatever, doesn't matter,” Amanda says, waving her free hand to dissipate the distraction. “Why is she texting you? Like, no offense, Papa, but I didn't expect you to become friends with her.”

She's starting to type something in your phone and you snatch it back before she can send it. “Why not?” 

At your daughter's deadpan expression you sigh and look at your phone in lieu of commenting further. There's no actual message awaiting to be sent, but now you have Mary as a contact, officially. 

Bloody Mary.

Well, it's accurate at least.

“What should I say?” You get another message of her nickname for you, the one word taking up over several lines.

“Say you're just chillin.”

You look at the array of medical journals atop your desk.

“Am I though? Is this really chilling?”

“No, Dad. Chillin. No ‘G’. It's cooler that way.”

Your face scrunches up in doubt.

 **Jesse:** I'm reading med journals

 **Jesse:** Or chillin, as it were

 **Bloody Mary:** BORING! 

**Bloody Mary:** cmon out

 **Bloody Mary:** at Jim  & Kims

 **Bloody Mary:** NOW

“She wants me to hang out at the bar,” you look up to see Amanda's wide grin. It is a bit disconcerting that your daughter is this excited for you to be making friends with a questionable woman. “It's kinda late for that, though.”

She gives an exasperated sigh, “Papa, you gotta live a little!”

“Hey now, I am living. With published articles about trauma triage. And the latest expensive technology that won't be seen out of university hospitals.”

“Uh-huh. Well, you can keep reading all that boring stuff or you can go and hang out with your new friend.” Amanda grabs her laptop back onto her lap and settles down for the long haul. “Only one of us has to finish work for tomorrow morning and it ain't you. So, go have enough fun for the both of us.”

Well, shit. Since when did your little Annita become so grown up and wise?

She doesn't even look up from her screen. “Stop giving me sad dad eyes and go! And wear something cool!”

\-- 

You're not sure if what is on your body could be classified as cool, but last time you checked (because you asked Amanda) old jeans are always in and black button downs can hide booze stains. How Amanda knows what clothing specifically masks alcohol stains sets off an alarm or two, but you let her off with only a raised eyebrow of Parental Judgement. 

The bar is exactly as it was the last time you were here. You don't actually recognize anyone besides the bartender, but the atmosphere and crowd vibe feel the same, which may be the charm of the place.

You're not a foot towards the bar before a weight slides into your left side and an arm grips around your back. A curtain of soft hair tickles your neck as a sharp nail rakes itself under your chin, guiding your face towards the guilty party with a gentle, but threatening, pressure. 

“Hey there, champ, looking for some fun?” Mary asks, voice low.

Her body easily guides you towards the bar as she talks, never leaving your side as you walk. She's surprisingly strong.

“Depends,” you say, left arm up and around Mary's shoulders, “If I say yes, will we get kicked out of a bar, arrested, or wake up in a ditch with no clothes on?”

“You say that like they're bad things, _champ_ ,” is the considerably deeper voice that answers from a spot at the bar table. 

Goddamnit, Robert. 

“Hey now, don't make that face at me.” Something like displeasure must show on your face, but it only makes Robert's shit eating grin wider.

“Play nice, boyos, we're drinking buddies tonight.” Mary wraps her other arm around Robert and leans forward on the bar top. “Save the cat fight for later on.”

Robert rolls his eyes, but easily concedes, leaning into Mary's hold and flagging down the bartender. “Fine, fine. Let's do first round, then. What'll it be, nurse?”

He directs the question towards you and now both of their expectant gazes stare you down like this is a test. First round of the night is your call and you can't fuck this up. This sets the mood, the pace, lets them know how you drink and how you fit with them and their style. 

Beer is the obvious choice, but it's also nasty and low in alcohol content and if you wanted that you can pick a pack up at the corner store. Wine is Mary's default, but again, too obvious, makes it look like you're trying to please. Plus, you know fuck all about wines. Tequila? Too hard, you're not looking to actually end up naked in a ditch somewhere. So, you suppose the best answer would be-

“Jack Daniels. Tennessee Honey, please.”

“Ohho! Getting fancy with your drinks, huh?” Robert jeers.

You are sincerely considering jumping over Mary to punch him.

“Not fancy, _Bobert._ Just don't wanna taste whatever piss water you choose.” There's a beginning of some indignant noise from him as you butcher his name and insult him in general, “No offense,” is the afterthought to the bartender that pushes three shots over.

Mary doesn't wait to hit her shot back like an old pro. “Take your shots already and quit your bitchin’ or go make out in the bathroom already, jeez.” 

She hails for another round and you take yours with no complaint. You wouldn't say you're bitching or anything, but Robert is… well, he's being an annoying asshole, honestly. Like, every word out of his mouth is intended to jab at you and get a response and the mature adult thing to do would be to take the high road, make amends or whatever. 

But, fuck that.

He wants to play this game? This weird, stupid sizing match up like you're trying to get the other to back down - if this is what he wants to play, then he best be prepared to put his money where his mouth is.

“Good!” Mary declares, handing you both another glass. “Here's to bad decisions and relaxed moral values, fellas!”

When you put your second glass back onto the bar, you see three more rows lined up in front of you. 

Confusion or concern cross your face, furrowed brows and a slight grimace. This was not how you imagined your night going. 

“Not backing out on us, are you, Jesse?”

You glance up to lock eyes with Robert as he downs the third shot, never breaking contact and his insufferable grin still in place. 

Never looking away, you shotgun two rounds in succession. It's fucking stupid, but you do it anyway. 

Mary cackles the entire time you all finish the rounds, then swings herself around and heads toward the exit. 

Robert grabs a few bills and throws them on the table. With your display, he looks even more smug, the bastard. “C’mon then, tiger. Let's get marching.”

You turn around and see Mary holding the door open, a few degrees more relaxed than minutes ago. A slight flush brightens her pale cheek bones from her laughter. You vaguely wonder how long she's already been at this before you even arrived. Your eyes find Robert again as he hooks his arm around your back. Even this close, you don't spot a tint of red on his skin, his dark eyes still clear and focused. He doesn't break stride as he guides you both out. 

“What?” You ask intelligently.

“The night's still young,” he says, and you sort of really hate that at this close a distance to him you need to tilt your head up to maintain eye contact. He never stops grinning that wolf's smile, full of teeth and promise. “We're bar hopping.”

Being outside with the cool night air brushing your warm face, you realize Robert hasn't let go. Once the three of you have established walking side by side with Robert now in the middle, you notice his grip on your waist is tight and unrelenting. The full force of those shots are sure to hit you soon, but the beginnings of being buzzed are already tickling the back of your mind. You’re starting to feel lighter. 

Robert is rough and warm, right up against you, and it takes a considerably easier amount of effort than last time to ignore the feel of leather. That may have something to do with getting an eye full of this man’s rugged face, honestly. 

And you know what to expect this time around.

Sort of. 

With Robert, you’re actually not that certain of a lot of things. The more you look, though, the more you are certain of one thing - the grey’s at his temples and the laugh lines at the corner of his dark eyes show his age, and damn, if that don’t look good. 

Holy shit, you need to get your shit together.

When you stop staring up at Robert and finally take note of where your feet are going, you see absolutely nothing familiar.

You have no idea where you are.

“Where are we heading?” At this point your feet are just following the man you’re clinging to.

“Irish I Were Drinking,” Robert says, manueving the three of you across the street and flipping off the car that was going to make a turn. It blares its horn at you. “An Irish pub, not far off.”

You take a moment to think this over.

“It’s an Irish pub named-”

“Yes,” Mary interjects with clear disgust. “This place just loves puns. Ugh. The lowest form of humor.”

You think this over for another moment. Mary must not like what she sees because:

“Don’t you dare-”

“Sounds like this-”

“I will rip your tongue out, Jes-!”

“-place is the whiskey-”

“Oh my God! Oh my fucking God!”

“-to my heart.” 

You smile bright and wide towards Mary, half hiding yourself on the opposite side of Robert, who is thankfully still gripping onto the both of you.

She frowns at you hard, “I am so disappointed in you.”

It’s hard not to laugh at that, at the amount of betrayal and disappointment in her pout. Robert’s deep chuckle joins along, swerving you all into a set of doors.

“Oh please, Mary. I’ve made better puns than that.” 

“You mean worse. You’ve made worse puns.” She disconnects herself from you two and heads straight for the bar. As if that can help save any amount of face. “So, what are we having?”

Mary looks at the both of you, but Robert, who still has yet to release his grip from your waist, looks down at you. This time feels less like a test, but you’re not quite sure what it is. There’s still pressure and expectation, but Mary’s raised eyebrow is less judgemental and more impatient than anything. And Robert… well…

The walk must've helped with alcohol in your system, because Robert is less unpleasant than he was an hour ago.

“Whiskey hasn’t failed me yet,” you say, and Robert smiles at that, guiding you both back to a dimly lit corner with a garish green booth. 

The bar itself is exactly like Jim & Kim’s, except the exaggerated Irish memorabilia and what sounds like some Irish rock inspired music. Either Flogging Molly or Dropkick Murphy’s, you really cannot tell. You think Amanda and Mat would both be disappointed in you. 

The corner Robert as sequestered you into is in a booth alcove, walled off with only one way to slide in and out of the seats. Dim lights hang around inside, making the small area darker than the already shady bar at large. 

It’s not that bad, you admit. Definitely lives up to its pub style and name.

“Surprised you actually came out with us,” Robert comments and you notice that the both of you take up one side of the booth. He makes no move to give you space. “What with your important nurse journals and all. Half expected you to be working tonight.”

You shrug at that, leaning against the wall to better face him, bringing a leg up onto the seat to put a bit more distance in between that hasn’t been there since you left Jim & Kim’s. You feel slightly colder. “Don’t work Wednesdays, I guess. Still getting used to the new schedule, so honestly, even if I’m not working I'll still be up at ass o’clock in the middle of the night.” You take a moment to jab him in his side with your foot. “And don’t knock off my medical readings, you jerk. What else am I supposed to do in this boring suburb?”

“Well someone’s feeling feisty!” Mary slides into the seat opposite you, three shots in hand and a sharp smile in place. “What, our boring little suburb not what you thought it’d be?” 

“Ouch, guess I deserve that,” you say in lieu of an apology for insulting their home, though they don’t look so offended and seem more like they want to drag the juicy gossip out of you. Regaining your footing, you shoot an unabashed grin in Mary’s direction, “But, no, definitely not what I expected.” 

“Flattery will get you everywhere, champ,” Mary plays along, leaning forward and giving a damn good impression of bedroom eyes. 

“Please don’t jump each other over the table, I’m right here.” 

“Aww, Robbie feeling left out?” Mary gives a mocking pout and you follow her lead with wide eyes.

“Would flattery work on you, too?” You lean toward him for emphasis and he frowns harder at you.

“Oh, I’m sure you could do more than flattery, with how bad he- Hey!” There’s a soft thump from under the table and Mary drops her teasing act to glare at Robert who’s turned his own set of daggers at her. It’s like an entire conversation takes place between them in the span of a few seething seconds. Without breaking contact Mary shoots back one of the shots and belches, loudly. “We’ll take this one slow then.” She grabs the glass intended for Robert and sips it.

That seems to be that, because Robert snickers, “You are truly a paragon of grace and beauty.” 

And then he steals your shot.

“Hey!” You ignore the weird moment that passed and focus on the thief sipping your whiskey.

“Too slow,” he says, relaxing into his seat and taking another sip.

“Get the next round, Jesse, dear?” Mary asks, all tease once again. 

You’re not quite sure how to process the whiplash that this evening is turning out to be. The mood around you three constantly shifting with each step forward and misstep sideways. You decide that this definitely calls for more alcohol, then. 

“Fine, fine. Robert, move.”

He does not move. 

“I gotta get out.”

“Then find a way out.” 

You immediately feel your nostrils flare and your shoulders straighten. You stare at the bastard and he stares right back, all insufferable smirking as he keeps sipping your drink. He settles himself out more, one arm on the top of the booth and both legs stretched under the table.

There is only one possible way to take this, and you never back down from a challenge.

Determined and unwilling to lose, you spit out a “Fine!” before proceeding to throw your leg over Robert’s lap. 

You straddle him. 

There’s no other way to describe it, not with your legs on either side of his legs, your chest against his chest, entrapping him under you. He’s looking up with raised eyebrows and terribly concealed shock. “I’ll make my way out,” you tell him, your head lowered so your whiskey breath brushes with his, you see how blown his pupils are. 

And it’s an afterthought, really, by the time you’re shifting yourself fully over to escape the booth, spotting his lax hand and drink, you don’t second guess yourself. You grab onto his hand that holds the glass, your hips still shifting, moving over his, and you bring the drink away and up to your lips, your weight now on your other leg, allowing you to pull away, and you gulp the remaining bit down. 

You’re not sure if you won or if you just gave Robert a lap dance. Albeit, a very awkward one.

There’s a low whistle from Mary as she glances between you two. “Do I get one next?”

Finally looking away from Robert’s dark, dark (entirely too dark) gaze, you realize you’re a bit too over the edge to be any sort of embarrassed.

You wink at her. “Only if you ask nicely.”

Mary’s grin is salacious and wicked, “We both know that’s not how you work.”

You shrug at her, trying your damnedest not to look at Robert, and move to the bar to get another round. A high pitched laughter follows you, though you think it’s directed at the man you were just sitting on. Well, at least Mary is having a good time. You have a gut feeling she doesn't often laugh like this so much.

You, on the other hand, don't usually flirt this much, considering you just threw yourself onto Robert.

Holy shit, you literally just did that, you fucking lush. 

This is the man you made out with a bit over week ago. The same man you’ve been bantering with since the moment you met him. And when he starts on that alpha male bullshit, what do you do? Give him a lap dance, apparently!

Jesus, what do you even want from him, Jesse? 

What the hell does he even want with you?

You’re a lonely widower whose sought the embrace of cheap drinks one too many times and can’t remember the last time you kissed anyone before him. Your idea of a fun night off work is reading for work and getting the latest gossip via text about work. You’re a workoholic and a nerd, trying to make friends with the cool, damaged kids down the block.  
Well, at least you have that in common.

You grab the drinks - tequila this time, because fuck it - and make your way back in time to catch the wild conclusion of Mary’s story. Robert’s roarous laughter fading to listen.

It is a nice laugh.

“So, what’d you do?” He asks, grabbing onto a glass and sliding over so you can sit. No repeat session this time.

“I told her to have a brownie and everything was gonna be fine.” 

They erupt into laughter again and you snort through your nose like a goddamn dork. 

“She ate three!”

Pot brownies? Is that the drama of suburban mothers at PTA meetings? 

That’s so… benign.

“She called the cops and told them time had stopped.”

Okay, that would have actually been hilarious to watch. It’s not fun horrendously tripping on edibles, but the idea of some pristine Stepford Wife losing her shit because her uncontrollable snot nosed rebel made brownies - that’s something classic you know folks back at home would fucking love.

(The city. Not home anymore.)

“Do you smoke weed?”

You focus back in on the conversation, realizing the question is directed at you. You blink in surprise. “Seriously?”

“Seriously. I have two fat blunts in my purse right now. Wanna blaze?”

There’s mischief in her eyes, the way the crinkles show as she squints at you and tries to keep her smile contained. You hear a snort from Robert. 

Your lips stretch out to match the knife’s edge in Mary’s gaze, voice low and conspiratory, “Bettin’ the price is more than a lap dance cause I know a couple grams of the good kush ain’t cheap, and I’m not about to light a weak one in a bar and get busted by the cops sitting at our eight o’clock.”

Both of their gazes immediately look back toward the pair of uniforms sitting at the bar, hats atop the table and mugs of whatever is on tap before them. You take your shot.

“So, you got some good shit and we hit it around the back. Or,” you pause long enough to catch Mary’s attention again, “Or we get pleasantly smashed and no one ends up spending the night behind bars cross fading halfway to hell.” 

Robert starts giggling and you crack a smile. 

“Jeez, champ, you really came for me there, huh,” Mary pouts, a hint of pride upturning her lips as she takes her drink. A moment later she's downing it with a hiss. “And apparently gunning on getting us actually smashed.”

Robert shoots his back no problem, a little to your disappointment.

The conversation from then on is easy. You listen as Mary laments about some of the other suburban mothers and the church committee. Surprisingly, no mentions of Joseph come up. Though, you're not entirely sure if it should surprise you considering the company. At the barbeque Robert avoided Joseph completely, going from one group of neighbors to the next with brief moments of disappearing. Mary wasn't much better, but when her and her husband were with each other it was tense with a seething undercurrent and snippy conversation. 

You know what anger and resentment looks like when it's boiling just beneath the skin.

On one hand it's none of your business. The animosity Robert has, the rocky Christiansen marriage - none of it concerns you. Except… 

Except now that you sit here and share drinks and stories with these two, listen to them banter and laugh, you think, it's going to be awfully hard to stay away from that mess. You like these two, despite them being trouble, maybe even because they are trouble, and you very much want to be their friend. 

You are not entirely sure if you want to be involved in their strange affair triangle, but you definitely want their friendship.

As stupidly desperate and childish as that sounds. 

“I'm glad I met you two.”

Okay, that was definitely not what you meant to say, because you really do sound stupid, but there's no going back now.

“Awww! Aren't you a big drunk softy,” Mary grins.

You can't even fault her for that. Chancing a glance towards Robert, who is conveniently sipping his drink, you note the red flushing down his neck.

“I was told to make friends and here I am,” the words roll off without being checked, no hesitancy, no filter, just drunken amicability. “Drinking with you lot instead of becoming a hermit that will never see the light of day.”

“With how we party, you still won't see the light of day,” Robert says, and he's smiling. Sort of smirking, but bigger and softer. It's a good look on him. 

“At least, not without a pair of sunglasses and a fistful of painkillers,” Mary inputs, wearing that same kind of half tilted smile.

You think they are just as drunk as you.

“To new friends, then.”

“New friends who get the next round!”

You can't help but cackle at that, right as Robert raises his empty glass in a cheer.

“Alright, alright,” you make your way out and towards the bar, and you are definitely drunk with how loose your limbs feel.

You lean against the bar top, about to call for the bartender when you're interrupted.

“Hey there, handsome, what're you ordering?”

The man -boy, really, he can't be older than early thirties- that slides in next to you is broad shouldered but thin waisted, his jeans and tight t-shirt doing well to compliment him, though he should really cut back on the hair product.

Before you can answer he's talking again, “Lemme get your next drink.”

The last time this happened to you, you met Mary and Robert. But this guy? This guy is not them. You don't like him. 

“That's alright, I'm good,” you say, already turning away.

“C'mon, one drink on me,” he grabs onto your elbow and you can't move away. “Just sit and chat a little.”

You really don't like him. 

“Flattered, but no,” your voice holds stronger than you expect, but then again you know how you can get when pushed, when intoxicated. “I'm already with friends.” 

He glances at the booth you came from and you realize he watched you walk over, might have been watching you for awhile. “Ditch em, hang out with-”

“Not interested.” You finally break free and flag down the bartender for another round, hoping to leave quick. 

He sees you and nods. Thank God. 

“What, dude, c’mon -” 

“Listen,” you turn back to him, your spine ramrod straight and your voice rising. He is not taking the goddamn hint. “I said no. Take the rejection and fuck off, okay, _pendejo._ ”

You gather the nicely timed drinks and leave it at that. You're with friends, you're pleasantly smashed, and you do not want to deal with a creep. Whether deep in the city or at the edge of the suburbs, there will always be that one-

“The fuck you say? Don't walk away from me!”

Your arm is jerked back and the glasses fall to the floor with a shatter. Everything around you goes blurry and you are instantly aware of only three things.

One: Your clothes now have alcohol spilled on them, which is gross and a terrible waste.

Two: This guy is still gripping your elbow and it's only getting tighter with each racial and homophobic insult he hurls at you, and you hate him all the more.

Three: The cops are gone.

In the next moment your knuckles are hitting flesh and the guy is doubling over, releasing you to protect the kidney you just punched. When your arm is free, you don't hesitate to jab him again. This time in the sternum. You took self defense at Alex's bequest, been in a few fights you hope Amanda will never know about, and you know what organs to hit because you've treated more wounds than you can remember. Before you can get a third hit in someone grabs your shoulders back, keeping you away.

Which is ridiculous because this guy deserves it. He was talking shit, harassing you, being an asshole, a creep, ruining your night out, and the pounding in your chest says _hit him again._

Robert's rough voice is in your ear. “Hey there, Jesse, cool it. Don't go starting shit in a bar. He's not worth getting arrested.”

But you're not starting anything, you're finishing it.

The man finally has his breath back, but he can't stand up right, still shielding his abdomen. “Fine, then. Go be with the town whores! We all know how easy they'll put out for yo-”

You really, really hate this guy.

“Say something else, _you fucking stupid- I will fuck you up so bad!_ ”

Robert has his arms around your stomach and pulls you out through the door.

The man is doubling over again, holding his nose as it bleeds out through his fingers.

“Lemme go!”

“Jesse.”

“Lemme show this fucker-”

“Jesse, now.”

His voice is harsh, a stern warning that rackles you more, but somewhere in you says to pause. You heave deep and ragged breaths, the night air chilly against your warm face. You're outside. Your hand hurts and you feel out of sorts, chest tight and a lump coiled in your throat, blood boiling hot.

You want to go back inside and keep punching-

“Jesse, no, come here.” 

You don't even realize you were trying to go back until Robert wrestles you around the corner of the pub. His arms are still around you, keeping your body close. You forgot how strong he is. The next moment has you pressed against the brick wall of an alley opening, his hands pushing your shoulders back, keeping you in place. 

“What the fuck, Jesse?”

You take a deep breath. You still want to hit something, anything, preferably the jerk inside. Instead, you keep your fists to your sides. There's no way Robert is letting you go and even at this point you don't want to press your chances. 

Besides, Robert is telling you to calm down. Somewhere in your addled brain you know this is bad - that same voice that told you to stop, maybe your conscious, maybe Alex. You knew throwing the first punch, the second, and even the third - you knew what you were doing, what you were getting into. Bar brawls don't end well, even if you win. Being so piss drunk that the siren song of violence coursing through your blood actually tempts you? That's the point where you know you need to stop, to walk away.

But you never do, do you? The first insult, the first hit and you always give in, always need to throw another and another. You want to hurt someone and you like it and that makes you sick.

You really are just like _him,_ aren't you? 

“Jesse? You okay?” Robert’s breath brushes your ear and you realize you're leaning your head against his shoulder, still breathing deep, inhaling whiskey and leather. He seems to be tolerate it, no longer pressing you into the wall, so you don't move, don't pull away. 

“Yeah,” you mumble into his jacket, then turn your face towards him to speak clearer. “Yeah, I'm good now. Sorry about that.”

“Sorry for what?” There's a humorous tone to him, but you don't think any of this is very funny.

Instead of answering you shrug. You're sorry for a lot of things, but right now you can't find the right words.

His chest expands and deflates, a sigh tickling the piercing in your ear. There's a heavy warmth about him, with his arms around you, keeping you up, holding you together. 

It's nice. 

Robert is nice. 

“I don't know what he did exactly, but he deserved it. So, don't feel bad about that.” 

“Couldn't take no for an answer,” you say. You know you don't have to explain yourself, but the more you talk it out, the more distracted you are from everything else, the hurt in your hand, the ache in your chest.

A low growl escapes Robert's throat, “Then he definitely deserved it. Should've let you keep punching him.”

“No. I'm glad, thanks.” 

“Why?” He almost sounds offended. 

You are not sure how to answer that. The truth is lingering there in the shadows, but you don't want to acknowledge it, don't want it to take shape. So you stare at Robert instead because at least that's safer - at his stubble of hair across his chin and cheek, at his pulsing carotid artery, at the strained muscle in his jaw. He smells like whiskey and leather and smoke and something entirely himself. 

You do not think about what you become when you drink, of who you become.

“Just... take the stupid gratitude, huh.”

You can see him smirk and stop yourself from head butting his face.

“Maybe I should thank you,” he says.

You have a feeling this is a trap, but you still ask why.

“For defending my honor.” Despite the smirk is in place, his hold on you gets tighter. There is something brittle about the creases near his lips, something hard and defensive in his eyes. Like the entire concept of someone defending him is a bad joke. “Didn't even do Queensbury rules, you rebel you.”

Drained, you can't even think of a snarky reply to follow through to that. What the fuck do Queensbury rules have to do with bar fights? The only rules are that of violent drunken beasts.

“He insulted you. You and Mary, and I wanted to shut him up.” Lifting your head and leaning back against the wall, Robert lets you go. His warmth is already missed.

Robert's dark eyes examine you - an ironic parody of your own work, except instead of a hospital room you're in an alley. 

Classy.

Not for the first time you wonder what he sees, what he finds in these glances. Probably a drunken wreck, if you are being honest. 

“Well, call me impressed and touched,” comes Mary's voice from the sidewalk, startling you both to break eye contact. For however long she stood around the corner you don't know. “I didn't know you had it in you, champ.”

“Where…. where did you go?” Because it's now that you realize she had not been near when you knocked the guy down or when Robert dragged you out.

She rolls her eyes, handing you a card, which you take dumbly since that's all you can do. “I was closing our tabs. And giving that idiot an ear full. I'm pretty sure he won't lurk around anymore, unless he wants to lose round two.”

You stare at her in slight awe. “You're amazing.”

She grins at that, though it's not as razor sharp as her others. Her hand easily ruffles your hair and your fondness for these jaded loners causes you to smile like a goober. You hear a guffaw from Robert, but he hasn't moved away nor made any snide remarks so you're counting this as a win. 

Friendship achieved. Go you.

After a silent moment of companionship, Mary and Robert no doubt having one of their telepathic facial expression conversations, she straightens herself out with a stretch of finality.

“Well, this has certainly been fun, but the wingman is going to break formation. Mary needs to go pass the fuck out.”

“Go with god.” Robert says, not missing a beat.

You're not sure what time it is, what with the night still feeling young and your adrenaline spike cruising you through, but you don't comment on her sudden departure. “Have a good night, get home safe.”

“You are such a dad. Deuces, nerds.”

And then she's gone, walking away like she hadn't gone shot for shot with you.

“Is she...okay to walk home?”

“Don't worry, Mary will be just fine. Now what about us? Calling it quits or still got some wild in you?” 

There's a contemplative moment. The fresh air and movement and blood flow has helped, but that only means the alcohol is coursing through you faster, too. You suppose first thing's first. “Food. I'd like some food in me.”

Robert lets out a bark of laughter, throwing his arm around your shoulder once more and leading you deeper into the alley. “I know just the place.”

And just like that you move on.

Maybe it shouldn't be as easy as this, but you don't really mind. 

He takes you further and further. The brick walls of one alley branching into another, every now and then a door cracked open. Bars or stores or smoke lounges, they all have a back entrance connected to here. You're entirely certain Robert is the sole reason you are not terribly lost right now. 

Okay, so you are actually lost, but he's leading you, so you're not really terribly lost. 

This thought makes you hold onto Robert tighter.

That, and he's very warm. 

Eventually, you see an eye sore of a bright red neon light stating _Pete's Piece a’ Pizza_. Somehow, you are not surprised. But also, the smell of freshly cooked pizza is mouth watering and you want nothing more than to stuff yourself with it. 

“You like pineapple on pizza?” He asks, already at the counter. 

“I do not care, as long as it's edible in my mouth in the next five minutes.”

“Two slices of Hawaiian, please.”

It takes entirely too long for food to arrive, though it may only be several minutes. And it is the most deliciously greasy pizza you've had in weeks. A sinful noise rolls out of your throat as you take another bite, and you know what it sounds like and you don't care. Not even when Robert stops dead in his tracks and watches you walk ahead. 

Dinner and a show, he can't complain about that.

At the end of the alley you apparently stumbled the length of, a bright strip mall greets you. In the center of the blinding lights is a gift from the pulque god of booze themself: the liquor store. 

There is a right choice to make here, you are sure. Something that leads to Robert and you calling in for the night, walking home to the sleepy cul de sac, saying goodbye and being responsible adults. However, with food in your belly and your head still buzzing and Robert at your back, that right choice was never a real option at all. 

Turning to Robert, you slyly ask, “Still got some wild in you?”

His smile in return promises a morning full of regrets. 

\--

Not minutes later, you are wondering why you chose white zinfandel, of all things, the bottle in a paper bag because it is just that kind of night. Robert is definitely to blame. He swore by the booze and you're feeling adventurous and now you have an entire bottle to empty. It's actually pretty good, too, for wine. 

What an odd night this has turned out to be.

Here you are at fuck o’clock at night, sitting on a curb in a corner store parking lot, drinking right from the bottle with Robert of all people. The guy that either wants to punch you with his fist or his mouth and you cannot determine which at any given moment. The same guy that picked you up at a bar, made to embarrass you in public, and also stood with you at the crack of dawn just talking. Also the same guy that you shared drinks and conversation with for the last several hours, who dragged you out of a bar brawl, and apparently is a very touchy drunk.

All while looking incredibly cool in his leather jacket, but somehow on the fenced edge of having an alcoholic breakdown or murder spree. 

Again, you cannot determine which it is. Probably both.

“You ever kill a man?” 

Ironic, but also very much not.

You pause your next taste of white zinfandel, your eyebrows raise up as you slowly turn to stare at Robert. He casually sips from his paper bag, staring out into the parking lot. 

What the hell, Robert. 

“Excuse me?”

“Ya know,” he continues, as if you need help understanding, “watch the life drain from someone’s eye. It’s not just their life, you know. It’s their hopes and dreams draining away. Every memory and experience they’ve ever had…gone.” He sets his bottle down on the ground and finally looks at you.

There are two answers you can give him once the surprise fades away.

“Well, I mean...uh, no. But also yes?”

His eyebrow now raises and you cannot possibly stop the word vomit spewing from your mouth.

“Yeah, I uh… you know I work at the E.R., right. Been there for a while. Took a break out of it and did clinic work. Got myself in order. Back in it now. We sometimes get some uh… some serious shit. You know, not always, though. It’s usually folks complaining about stomach pains or drunk kids having done something dumb. Lots of paperwork and talking to patients and getting yelled at by patients, and organizing the place. But, uh….” 

Oh, god, you are rambling and have no idea what you're saying. Why isn't he stopping this?

“So, there’s a guy, really drunk, he fell off a bridge. There was a kid with a cracked skull that jumped from a roof. A baby that was several weeks early. And then the mother soon after. Some folks that take pills with their vodka. Stupid boys doing stupid things and getting stabbed. Accidents, crashes…” 

You take a deep breath, this has gotten out of hand, what the hell is wrong with you. 

“And then… coding right on the operating table. Brought in already dying on arrival... So, yeah, I’ve…uh I’ve never killed someone. Directly. Or with intention. But, we can't save everyone, not even...uh, couldn't even save...”

 _Alex,_ you think. 

You take a long drink from the bottle to shut yourself up, to drown the sudden sharp ache in your chest. 

You remember Alex's hopes and dreams and how they drained away as she became a memory herself.

Why the hell did he want to ask this anyway?

You’re not sure how many seconds or minutes have passed as you stare at Robert. Your hand strains its grip on the bottle, knuckles still raw from earlier, quivering until you are able to set the bottle down without smashing it. Suddenly you feel cold sweat beading at the base of your neck and palms. You can’t remember the last time you tried so hard to control your facial muscles, to keep them relaxed and neutral, but something must slip because something else in Robert softens. The hard lines in his expression shift, his dark gaze becomes hesitant as you focus back in. 

You may have made this awkward. More so than you usually do. 

Way to go, you dumb blabbermouth.

“You don’t say,” he finally says, lifting his drink again. 

Taking a deep, stabilizing breath, you clench your fists a few times, the small prickles of pain help. The previously comfortable silence is now weighing on you like a ton, like only guilt can. You want to say more, take everything back, explain yourself, change subjects, get up and walk away and never return. Robert doesn't do small talk and the one time he does, you've gone and made it awkward.

God, why do you suck so much? 

Letting out a gust of air, you take a big gulp of wine and stand. You haven't thought through the course of action at all yet, but you're tense and restless and upset with no outlet to let it all go. 

“Yeah, it sort of sucks,” you say as the rock suddenly gripped in your hand goes soaring without a second thought. A loud ding rings out through the empty parking lot as it hits a sign. 

In the next moment Robert stands beside you and another loud ring echoes out. 

“Rock and roll!”

And another.

“Hell yeah!”

And another.

“Let it all out!”

And another.

“I’ve got a problem with authority!”

A crash of broken glass and you realize you threw your bottle of wine.

At a car.

“Oh shit!”

You don't know if anything broke because you don't stop to check. Robert is pulling on your arm and you're running away, through the parking lot, across the street. The store’s doorbell rings and you hear people's voices exiting, so you run harder. Down the street you see a pair of cops reach the corner and you pull Robert into an alley and there is no stopping because they turned their heads and you can't risk them following you, and this is just like that time in undergrad when cops busted a house party and you and Alex and Craig and Smashley jumped a fence and hid several blocks down in someone's bushes. 

Except now you are too old to be pulling this shit. You’re in your forties, you’ve got a kid.

Before you realize it, you've slowed down and the scenery around you has become familiar. 

“Last stretch and we're home free,” Robert says, nearly dragging you to pick up the pace.

“My lungs are killing me, hold on,” you gasp out. Your chest is on fire. Maybe you should cut back on the stress cigarettes. Tell Craig to up your workouts.

“No can do, champ. Threw my bottle at the cops and they radioed in. We gotta keep running.”

“What!” You full stop and stare at Robert as he stares right back.

“I'm kidding,” he grins and you let out a sigh.

There is a sudden echo of sirens in the distance.

“Or am I?”

“ _Fuck you!_ ”

He only laughs and both of you start running again.

\--

You are a sweaty mess when you finally collapse on the floor of Robert's living room. Your lungs can't get enough air and your sides hurt and feet ache and you feel like you're going to vomit.

“I'm gonna vomit.”

“Not on my floor, you're not.”

Something wet hits your face and it is a cool, soothing presence on your hot skin. There is no point in moving it, with how refreshing it feels, so you stay there open mouth breathing through a mask of a wet towel. 

“Thank you,” you say when you eventually sit up. As the room tilts, you bury your face more into the washcloth, taking a few moments to restabilize. 

After your face and neck are wiped, the room still feels too warm. 

The shirt needs to go.

“Not that I'm complaining, but you don't need to thank me with a strip show.”

Robert is lounging on his couch, a glass of what you assume is whiskey in his hands and his leather jacket off. He doesn't look away when you glare at him, making a show of eyeing you up and down with that stupid wolf’s grin as you sit on his floor with your tank rumpled. He catches your button shirt with his face and you take his drink before it can spill. 

Yep, definitely whiskey.

“Just for that, you’re not choosing the movie,” Robert tosses your shirt somewhere over his shoulder and grabs another glass from the end table. 

“Movie?” 

With a remote in hand, Robert's television turns on and it is possible that actual channel scrolling happened or that he knows what to press, but one moment there is late night _Telemundo_ and the next there is a woman loudly sobbing into the shoulder of another woman as a tearful piano melody plays. 

“Oh yeah, an underrated classic,” Robert says as he leans back for maximum comfort. 

Which you should absolutely get in on because the floor, despite being softened by the luxurious rug, is not doing any good for your back. Taking a note out of Robert's book, you flop yourself onto the rest of the couch, with your legs hanging over the edge and your head pressed into Robert's thigh. 

Maximum comfort. 

At the expense of hogging two-thirds the couch, sure, but your head is foggy and heavy and the cushions are nice and soft and Robert is a solid presence you're enjoying. There isn't any reason to move. So, with the both of you settled in, you watch as the movie progresses.

Or, probably not. 

You're not sure.

One moment it was a scene of a man running through the rain. The next moment you blink and it's the ending moments of the movie - the kiss is terribly long and everyone is applauding. 

That isn't what roused you, though, the sound much is quieter than it was before. Turning your head, you feel something pause the repetitive petting of your hair. 

Ah, it's Robert. 

Why he is combing his fingers through your hair? Has he been doing this for long or only to wake you? When did you fall asleep? Why not wake you earlier?

What comes out of your mouth instead of any of that is a rather tired and questioning, but pleased noise. 

“Hmm?”

His finger flicks your earring, a slight sting an annoyance more than actually waking you up. “Gotta watch the credits.”

“... What?”

“A lot of folks worked hard on this, at least appreciate them.”

You have no idea what Robert is saying.

Honestly, the screen is a bit too far away and blurry right now, everything turned on its side. Rows of white scribbles slide up and off screen. 

What's there to watch? 

Robert lists names, his voice low and rolling, his thigh surprisingly a nice pillow.

You feel his hand comb through your hair again. That's nice, too.

He wanted you to do something, right? Appreciate someone?

You'll ask him in the morning.


End file.
